


Rise Above

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Series: Where Eagles Dare [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Americans, Escape from Great Britain, Excessive Punk Rock, F/M, Gen, Gilman Street, It's the 90s Guys, M/M, Peace, Punk Rock, Recreational Drug Use, There was good punk rock, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Wizards Living as Muggles, mentions of real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 44,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Harry has taken advantage of his enormous wealth and used it to talk to a solicitor. He finds out a few things— namely, the fact that his participation in the Triwizard Tournament has rendered him an emancipated minor and the last Lord of the Potters. Being the Lord of the Potters means a lot of things, but most importantly, it means Harry can get the hell outta dodge, and his friends can come along, too.</p><p>Thus begins the new life of the Golden Trio. They're in America, they're in California, they're in Berkeley. Let the good times roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Black Flag's 'Rise Above'. It's a good song, look it up.

"I don’t want to fight a war."

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione are curled up in the furthermost corner of the library, in a nook usually reserved for amorous couples and overworked Ravenclaws. But exams are over and it’s the last Hogsmeade weekend, so for once, the corner is left empty.

 

"I don’t want to fight a war," Harry repeats. "Even if the Minister believed me, I don’t want to die. I’m only fourteen."

 

"He’s got complete control of the papers," Hermione murmurs quietly. "If you keep pushing the issue, he’s going to play dirty."

 

"How are you going to keep out of it?" Ron asks. "There’s no way— even if the Ministry doesn’t believe you, Dumbledore’ll expect you to help, at least."

 

"I know." Harry pulls out a small Muggle notebook, spiral-bound and battered from being carried in his pocket. "That’s why I’ve got a plan."

 

Hermione frowns.

 

"What sort of plan?"

 

"Well, since the end of the Tournament, I’ve been doing some research." He flips open the notebook. "I’ve been talking to a solicitor, and apparently, I’ve officially been an emancipated minor since I competed in the First Task."

 

"How?"

 

"Well, according to Mr. Greengrass— he’s my solicitor— Dumbledore didn’t exercise his right as my Magical Guardian to pull me out, recognizing me as an adult." Harry flaps a hand. "All the ins and outs don’t really matter. The point is, I’m the legal Lord of the Potter House."

 

"…" Hermione’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. "What does that mean, exactly?"

 

"It means a lot of things," Harry says. "For one, the Trace is off my wand. For another, I have control of all the Potter assets— money, property, businesses— the lot of it."

 

"That’s wicked, Harry," Ron says. "But what’s that mean?"

 

"It means, they’ve got a house in America." Harry leans forward. "And I’m going."

 

"But Harry, they’ll just go after you—"

 

"I’ll be outside Ministry control," Harry says. "And anyway, I’m a legal adult who hasn’t done anything illegal. Mr. Greengrass looked it up— my being in the Tournament and  _ subsequent survival _ —" Harry makes a face as he speaks. "Can be accepted in place of OWLs. It’s an old rule, but it’s still on the books. They can’t take my wand, even if they wanted to."

 

"Okay, but— Harry, you realize you’re not going alone." Hermione’s frowning, "We wouldn’t let you go alone."

 

"They’ll take our wands if we don’t wake our exams," Ron says. "We need another year— or I do, anyway. Hermione could pass if she took them tomorrow."

 

"I figured you might insist— I have that worked out, too." Harry flips a page. "In Section 243 of the Ministerial Education Decree, paragraph twelve, it says— 'In the case of home or overseas education, a Magical Guardian or formal tutor may extend the education of their ward or wards until deemed fit for formal examinations to be taken'. You know what that means?"

 

"No," Ron says flatly.

 

"It means that we can keep our wands as long as we’re still technically getting an education," Hermione explains. "But that doesn’t mean anything, Harry, because my parents are Muggles, and even if they weren’t, I highly doubt Mrs. Weasley would allow Ron to just plead sick and bugger off to America— even if it is to make sure you don’t get into trouble."

 

Harry smiles.

 

"I’m Lord of a Noble House," he says, hands sliding across the table. "I can declare you my wards, if I wanted."

 

"Harry— you remember I’m a Pureblood, right?" Ron asks. "I mean, my Dad and my brothers and Ginny aside, people used to consider us Weasleys very respectable— maybe not the noblest house, but we were very traditional. Never did anything too unexpected— never mixed our blood or anything."

 

Hermione snorts quietly, shaking her head when Ron looks at her.

 

"It’s a book thing," she murmurs. "I’ll tell you later."

 

The redhead rolls his eyes.

 

"Anyway, Harry, you’d need Dad’s permission."

 

"I know, but— and I don’t mean this in a bad way, but— socially, my family’s…" Harry hesitates. "Technically, my family name’s got more authority than yours. If— if you wanted, I could do it and he couldn’t stop me."

 

"… Bloody hell, Harry," Ron says quietly. "You’ve thought this through."

 

"My solicitor did," Harry corrects. "I told him what I wanted to do. He just figured out a way to do it without getting into trouble."

 

Hermione chews her lip thoughtfully.

 

"What about the Trace?"

 

"It’s negated by the fact that you’ll be homeschooled," Harry says. "Once you’re technically under my care, the Trace is removed. It’s part of some complicated subparagraph— I can find it for you later, if you want."

 

"We wouldn’t be able to come back."

 

"It’s not like your families couldn’t visit us," Harry points out. "Or come live in America. They might need to, if Voldemort does what I think he’s going to do."

 

Hermione hums.

 

"Do you know how we’d get there?"

 

"Plane— it’ll be harder to track."

 

"Then you two will need passports."

 

"I know. Gringotts handles those sorts of things. I can have my solicitor write up all the paperwork about you two—" Harry nods at them. "And get the proper Muggle paperwork for Ron and me from the goblins. I think we’ll be fine if we leave… my birthday week, maybe?"

 

"Well, my parents and I are going to France this summer," Hermione says. "The first week of holiday. Could you and Ron have everything sorted by the time I get back?"

 

"I can take the Night Bus," Ron offers, looking at Harry. "I can meet you in London and we can sort everything out then."

 

"Sounds like a plan— we can spend the night at the Leaky Cauldron and we can meet Mr. Greengrass in the morning to handle the paperwork." Harry shoves his notebook back in his pocket. "We’ll figure out a date we won’t be missed and handle it then."

 

"Do you know what the house looks like? What condition it’s in?" Hermione asks as they move to get up.

 

"It’s been taken care of," Harry says. "It might need furniture or something, but the house itself should be alright."

 

Hermione nods to herself.

  
"Alright," she says simply. "Figure it out, and we’ll follow you."


	2. Chapter 2

_ -Harry, _

 

_ There’s a snag in our plans. Tomorrow morning, we’re leaving the Burrow to go to some kind of headquarters. Have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix? Well, apparently it’s reforming, and we’re moving in to Sirius’ parents’ house. Mum says he offered the place up for the Fidelius Charm in exchange for staying in the loop. I don’t know where it is yet, won’t know until tomorrow morning. _

 

_ Basically, it’ll be impossible for me to sneak off. _

 

_ On top of that, Dumbledore’s visited. He says they’ll be picking you up just after your birthday. We might have to move up our plans. _

 

_ What do we do? _

 

_ -Ron _

  
  


Harry reads the letter carefully, frowning slightly as he goes through the plan in his head. This turn of events throws a wrench in his plans, but nothing too great, nothing that can’t be solved from his bedroom at Privet Drive.

 

Nodding to himself, he pulls out two sheets of paper and a pen.

  
  


_ -Hermione, _

 

_ Change of plans. Moving trip up to first week of July. Acceptable? _

 

_ -Harry _

  
  


He sets that sheet aside for a moment, then turns to the next letter.

  
  


_ -Ron, _

 

_ Can handle solicitor and Gringotts. Moving trip up to first week of July if able. Will confirm.  _

 

_ Try to figure out a way to sneak out for escape. Twins will likely help. _

 

_ -Harry _

  
  


Hedwig puts out a talon obediently as he ties his letters to her leg.

 

"Sorry to be putting you through your paces," he murmurs, petting her feathers lightly. "But things need to get done, you see."

 

She nips at his fingers affectionately before taking off into the night.

 

He watches her go, then does his best to get some sleep.

 

He dreams of Cedric.

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Fine with me. _

 

_ -Hermione _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ -Harry _

 

_ I’m fine with early July. The house elf is a little monster, but he showed me a secret passage in the basement when I asked. I figure he doesn’t want bloodtraitors in the house. _

 

_ Sirius looks like shit. He hates this place. With all the stuffed elf heads, I can see why. _

 

_ -Ron _

  
  


*.*

  
  


Mr. Greengrass’ offices are located right at the crossroad of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. It’s a small, unassuming office, spotlessly clean despite the frankly alarming overflow of parchment piled on his desk and counter spaces.

 

He’s out to breakfast when Harry gets there bright and early at eight o’clock in the morning, leaving him in the waiting room with Mr. Greengrass’ daughter and assistant, Daphne.

 

Harry knows her reputation, of course. A Slytherin, considered by many the prettiest girl in their year, she’s tall and blonde, with wide, doe brown eyes and a charming smile.

 

"Father said he was working with the Potters again," she remarks, sliding into the seat next to him. "I’ve been helping him write up your OWL-replacement forms."

 

"Yeah, it’s a recent thing," Harry admits a little awkwardly. "Er, can I ask what you’re doing here?"

 

Daphne fiddles with the neon yellow scrunchy in her hand absently.

 

"Just helping Father. It was this or tea with Mother’s friends." She shudders visibly. "A fate worse than death, that."

 

Harry snorts.

 

"Fancy tea parties full of gossip," he says. "My Aunt Petunia likes those."

 

"My Mother’d like her, then."

 

"I doubt it. She’s a mean bitch."

 

"So’s Mother." Daphne tosses her hair over one shoulder. "So, you’re leaving Hogwarts, then?"

 

Harry shrugs.

 

"Yeah. I figured I’d better get out before everything falls to shit, you know? I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it."

 

"And what do you want?"

 

"Not quite sure yet, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out with all the free time I’m going to have now."

 

Even Daphne’s laugh is pretty, the tinkling of tiny, silver bells.

 

"What do you need done today, Potter?" she asks, getting to her feet. "Maybe I can get some of it done for you before Father comes back."

 

"I need to declare Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger as wards of the Potter House."

 

Daphne tuts teasingly.

 

"Not a Lord even a full year and already throwing around your influence," she says, tugging a heavy, leatherbound book from the shelf behind her father’s desk that Harry has come to know as the Complete Compendium of the Potter House. "I imagine Weasley’s family isn’t aware of this decision?"

 

"You’d imagine right, I think." Harry watches her run her fingers over the blue and gold cover before flipping it open. "What are you doing?"

 

"Well, there are two ways to file a Lord’s acceptance of a ward," Daphne explains without looking up from the book. "We can go the Modern Social route, which involves filing with the Ministry and waiting weeks for the bureaucracy to clear— or it can be handled the Traditional way, where the Lord of the House simply has them added to their Compendium. Since all the Compendiums are enchanted, the information is automatically dispersed to all relevant parties. I think you would prefer the Traditional way, if only because it appears that you want to keep this relatively quiet."

 

"I’d like that, yeah."

 

"Well, in adding their names here, you get the added bonus of secrecy because when Dumbledore or Lord Weasley or somebody from the Ministry realizes you and your friends have gone missing, it’ll take a bit longer for them to find the necessary files and realize that they’ve fallen under the protection from the Potter House and that they won’t be able to track them."

 

"… I think I might need a bit more information than that."

 

"To put it simply, the only people that would be able to track down Granger or Weasley is if you gave express permission, and because you’re a proper Lord now, they won’t be able to track you down without the permission of a blood-related, Magical guardian— and all of yours are dead, so." Apparently finding what she was looking for, she turns the book around and brings out a quill.

 

"Put down their full names here— their proper ones."

 

"Will they take on my surname?" Harry asks as he puts down  _ Hermione Jane Granger _ and  _ Ronald Bilius Weasley _ . 

 

"Yes— but that’s why it’ll be harder for the Ministry to track. See, if they’re looking for —" she glances at the page. "’Granger, Hermione Jane’, they won’t find anything, because she’s under 'Potter, Hermione J'. Actually, it might do her good to change her name, while she’s at it. Her name’s too unusual for secrecy."

 

"She’d kill me if I changed her name," Harry says flatly.

 

"Well, then just switch around her first and middle name. Plenty of people go by their middle names. I do."

 

Harry blinks.

 

"Daphne’s your middle name?"

 

She nods somberly.

 

"My first name’s Dagmara," she admits. "It’s a family name on my mother’s side— she’s Russian, you know."

 

Harry chuckles.

 

"My name’s Heinrich," he says. "My dad wanted to use family names, but everyone just ended up calling me Harry anyway."

 

"You’re too brown for a name like Heinrich," Daphne says with a laugh. "But rumor has it the Potter line originated in Germany, so I guess it makes sense."

 

"I think Mr. Greengrass said there was an alliance with the Patils sometime in the late 1800s," Harry says with a shrug. "I still haven’t finished going through the Potter Library, so I’m not entirely sure."

 

"Huh. Well, let me know if you figure it out, Pureblood history is a fascinating subject." Daphne glances at the book. "So, what’ll you put down?"

 

"Ronald and Jane Potter, I suppose. She can always change it back later, right?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Stealing my clients again, darling?"

 

Harry starts, spinning to find Mr. Greengrass tugging off his cloak and hanging his hat by the door.

 

"Just the one, Father. He’s interesting."

 

"Oh, thanks," Harry mutters dryly.

 

Mr. Greengrass smiles.

 

"What are we doing today, Mr. Potter?" he asks, circling his desk to peer over his daughter’s shoulder. "Is it already handled?"

 

"He just added two new Potter wards to the Compendium," Daphne explains to his father.

 

"You didn’t have him fill out Ministry forms?" Mr. Greengrass’ face goes dark, his eyes narrowing.

 

Daphne seems unperturbed.

 

"As I understand it, he’d like his movements to be kept in utmost secrecy," she tells him, straightening. "The Compendium is the most discreet way to handle such matters."

 

Her father’s gaze doesn’t waver for a long moment. Then, all at once, he cracks, letting out a booming laugh.

 

"That’s my girl," he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

 

"Is she going to be following in your footsteps, Mr. Greengrass?" Harry asks. "Because I wouldn’t mind having her when you retire."

 

"I plan to," Daphne offers. "But it’ll be up to my… husband."

 

"We’ll find a good match for you, don’t worry," Mr. Greengrass says easily. "One that’ll spite your mother and let you become a public defender of some sort."

 

"I’ll fight for Elf Rights like Granger," Daphne says, and Harry can’t help the laughter that bubbles up.

 

"Hermione’d like the help," he says. "Though I don’t quite know how the fight’s going in America."

 

Daphne stiffens, eyes going wide.

 

"America?"

 

Harry nods.

 

"We’re leaving the country while we still can," Harry says with a shrug. "My parents bought a house in the states a few months before they were killed."

 

"Daphne, I know I don’t need to say this, but his plans are confidential," Mr. Greengrass adds. "No one can know."

 

"Actually, it might do us some good if someone at Hogwarts knows," Harry says thoughtfully. "We might need to be able to pass messages without the possibility for tracking, and it’s a little obvious if Mr. Greengrass comes swooping into Hogwarts with a letter for Ginny or something."

 

Daphne blinks.

 

"I— yeah, I’d be happy to help." She smiles. "It’d add to my mystery, don’t you think? Passing secret messages for the Potter lord and his family."

 

Mr. Greengrass rolls his eyes.

 

"Sometimes I forget you’re only fifteen," he says. "Then you remind me."

 

Daphne smiles sweetly up at her father, then turns back to Harry.

 

"Well, this is all done," she says. "Do you need anything else?"

 

"Could you file for the Trace to be removed from Ron and Hermione’s wands?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Then no. All that’s left for me to do today is go to Gringotts. I still need Muggle documentation."

 

"Yes— have them handle your application for citizenship too, if you can manage. Oh! And money transferral. You’ll need Muggle money as well, I imagine."

 

"Yeah. Don’t worry, I have a list."

 

"Of course you do. Well, have a good day, Mr. Potter."

 

"You too, Mr. Greengrass. Daphne."

 

Daphne grins.

 

"Nice meeting you properly,  _ Henry _ ."

 

With the way she says his name, Harry might think he’s in trouble. Based on Mr. Greengrass’ stifled snicker, Harry might be in a lot of it.

 

Oh, well.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Gringotts moves far quickly, all told. He fills out a few forms, signs a few others, and by lunch, he has money transferred to Hermione’s Muggle bank account for the plane tickets and three folders of fresh identification papers tucked into his robes.

 

He decides Henry is as good a name as any to go by from now on. Every little bit that could impede any attempts to track his or his friends’ whereabouts is a plus in his book. Besides,  _ Heinrich _ isn’t much better than  _ Harry _ , as far as he’s concerned.

 

He has lunch in Muggle London before heading home, because he deserves it. He managed to handle all of his errands  _ and _ lose his tail before he even reached Diagon Alley.

  
It’s been a good day.


	3. Chapter 3

_ -Hermione, _

 

_ Money transferred to your Muggle account for plane tickets. You and Ron are officially Potter wards. Minor name changes. Can be corrected at a later date. All of our documents enclosed. Don’t kill me. _

 

_ -Harry _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ -Ron, _

 

_ Plans confirmed. First week of July. You and Hermione are officially Potter wards. Minor name changes. Hermione is Jane on her paperwork, I’m Henry. Can be corrected at a later date. Hermione has documents. _

 

_ How’s Sirius? _

 

_ -Harry _

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ I bought the tickets. Our flight is at eight o’clock in the morning, July 4th. We’ll be arriving at ten o’clock in the morning in San Francisco. I’ve gone ahead and booked us a room in San Francisco, as I imagine we’ll want to freshen up and sleep properly. We can take a train the following morning to the house, I think, though I’ll need an address and a map to make sure. _

 

_ There’s a hotel around the corner from the Leaky Cauldron. We can meet there on the third and take a cab to the airport in the morning. Again, I took the liberty of booking a room. You gave me a lot more money than I needed. _

 

_ I won’t kill you. I was called Jane all through primary school. Henry sounds nice. We should probably get used to calling ourselves that. _

 

_ -Jane _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ -Harry _

 

_ I figured I’d be taking your name. It’s the way things are done. How’d Hermione take the name change? _

 

_ Sirius hides a lot. The house is a mess, and Mum’s gotten a bit overbearing with the cleaning, so he hides out in his Mum’s room with Buckbeak most of the time. I know he’s probably crazy from Azkaban, but I think this house is making him funny. He freezes up sometimes when we’re cleaning, like he’s seeing something no one else is. With the Dark Artifacts we keep finding everywhere, I don’t really blame him. His life must have been hell here. _

 

_ -Ron _

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ -Jane, _

 

_ Good point. Will begin signing off as Henry from this point on. _

 

_ Any extra money can be spent as needed. Plans for the third sound fine. Can we get there early, do a few tourist things? Maybe some shopping? I’ve never seen a lot of that stuff. It’ll be a Sunday. _

 

_ What have you told your parents? _

 

_ -Henry _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ -Ron, _

 

_ Jane’s booked a hotel in Muggle London near the Leaky Cauldron for the third. The plane leaves at 8am on the fourth. Come early, would like to see the sights before leaving forever. _

 

_ Sirius will be fine for now. Maybe he can follow us once settled. _

 

_ -Henry _

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ I handled my parents. _

 

_ Shopping sounds good. We can go on the London Eye or something. _

 

_ -Jane _

 

_ — _

 

_ -Harry _

 

_ Sounds fine. I’ll see you then. _

 

_ -Ron _

  
  


*.*

  
  


"I’m leaving Britain," he tells Petunia and Vernon on the second of July. "Tomorrow."

 

It’s enough to catch their attention.

 

"What do you mean, you’re leaving?" Petunia demands, bewilderment evident in her valiant attempt not to screech.

 

Harry shrugs.

 

"It’s not safe for me to be here any longer," he says simply. "The man that killed my parents is back, and he’ll be looking for me. It’s safer for me— and for you, come to think of it— if I don’t live here anymore. So, I’m leaving for Australia."

 

"And going where, might I ask?" Vernon asks meanly. "You’ve got no friends in Australia, no family. If you did you wouldn’t be here."

 

"Mum and Dad bought a house to go into hiding just outside of Sydney. Maybe if they’d gone they wouldn’t be dead." Harry fiddles with his sleeve absently. "Anyway, I don’t want to be involved in this Magical bullshit. There’s a war coming, and they want me to fight in it. I’ve never considered a career in the military, especially not at fifteen, so, I’m off. I just thought you ought to be aware, should any of my sort come knocking, as a courtesy thing."

 

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

 

"You know, boy, perhaps you aren’t as stupid as we thought you were," Vernon remarks, a vindictive smile spreading across his wide face. "Maybe you’re simply slow."

 

Of course. Out of everything Harry has said, Vernon remains fixed on Harry’s changed opinion of the Magical world.

 

Whatever.

 

"Well, I got there in the end," he says agreeably. "Anyway, I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning for London. You probably won’t see me again."

 

With a final nod, he slips out the door to spend his final day in Privet Drive remembering all the reasons he hates this place.

 

Maybe he’ll get himself something for the plane from the shops in town.

 

The possibilities are endless.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Hermione— no, Jane— hugs him tightly when he steps into the lobby of the Blackbrick Hotel, trunk rolling behind him with Hedwig’s empty cage balanced neatly on top.

 

"Henry," she greets, pulling back. "Ron’s already upstairs. Come on, we’ll drop your things off and go to breakfast."

 

Harry— Henry, he’s going to have to get used to that— nods and follows her upstairs.

 

"Hey, Ha— Henry." Ron grins at him from where he’s splayed across one of the beds. "You don’t look too bad."

 

"Thanks," Henry says dryly. "So, what are we doing first?"

 

"Breakfast, before Ron complains. We can figure out the rest as we go along."

 

"Hey, I didn’t get to eat before I left this morning," Ron complains. "You know how early I had to wake up? It was still dark when I got here— I had to wait in the lobby until Jane showed."

 

Henry feels his stomach clench.

 

"Listen, Ron, I’m sorry about all this trouble. I wish it was easier—"

 

"It’s fine, mate," Ron interrupts, putting a hand up. "It’s not like— we’ll keep in contact. I feel kinda bad, because y’know, Mum— but once we’re all settled, I’ll send her an owl. It’ll be fine."

 

His stomach gurgles loudly, loudly enough to cut off whatever apology was forming on Henry’s lips, and Jane laughs.

 

"You can apologize with breakfast," she tells him. "Right, Ron?"

 

"Damn right," he agrees, throwing an arm over Henry’s shoulders. "C’mon, let’s eat. We’ll go do Muggle things and maybe sneak into a pub later tonight, alright?"

 

"… Alright."

 

"We’ll be fine, Henry," Jane adds comfortingly, squeezing his arm. "It’s probably the least dangerous adventure we’ve ever had, if you think about it."

 

Henry snorts.

 

"Yeah, I suppose you’re right." He glances at Ron.

 

"So, what do you want to eat?"

  
  


*.*

  
  


They don’t end up going to a pub that night. Instead, they get on the London Eye like tourists and watch London from the highest point when it magically breaks down.

 

It’s a good last memory to have.

  
  


*.*

  
  


"This thing is supposed to fly?"

 

"It does fly, Ronald. I promise."

 

"It’s made of metal."

 

"It’s science. I’ll tell you about it sometime."

 

The plane starts to taxi, shaking as it turns onto the runway.

 

"Her— Jane, get me off of this thing." Ron’s gone pale. His fingers are clenched around the arm rests, white-knuckled and clammy.

 

"Too late," she sayss, unsympathetic. "Here, I picked this up for you."

 

Digging through her bag, she brings out a book.

 

"It’s called  _ The Hobbit _ ," she says. "It’s a Muggle story, but I think it’ll keep you occupied."

 

Ron stares at her like she has three heads. She stares back.

 

It’s an argument he knows he won’t win, so instead, he ducks his head and cracks open the book.

 

Jane’s smile is triumphant. She turns to Henry.

 

"What about you? Need something to read?"

 

"I think I’m going to try and sleep, honestly," he says. "It’s that or worry."

 

"Don’t bother," Jane says bluntly. "The Ministry’s so backwards— everyone’s so backwards— that by the time they do notice, they’ll never find us.”

 

“... I told the Dursleys we were going to Australia,” Henry says after a moment. “Just in case they thought to ask them.”

 

Jane grins.

 

“Perfect. Now they’ll be even more turned around,” she says. “Go to sleep, Henry. We’ll be in America before you know it.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“I know. Just can’t help myself, is all.”

  
“Oh, Henry, you never can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that's all I have that's 100% done. Another chapter is in the works, but in case you guys haven't noticed, I'm also involved in a crazy long Star Trek series that we're hoping to finish by the end of September. On the bright side, every time I'm not writing Star Trek I'm writing this, so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what the most awkward thing about writing porn is? The fact that when I'm done I'm handing it off to my first ever girlfriend who is going to add to it/beta it. I haven't written porn since I was fourteen, guys, and it was handwritten Vladimir Todd Chronicles bondage porn that I never published.
> 
> Naturally, of course, I've decided to procrastinate, so I wrote the next chapter of this instead. The Star Trek porn (for Doubt the Stars, not this) is coming, most definitely. I've decided.

San Francisco is beautiful, even if they are jetlagged. Henry never thought he’d experience jetlag, but there’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

 

After ten hours a plane, Henry decides to treat them all, taking them to the fancy restaurant in their hotel. They eat fillet mignon and salmon (Ron has one of each) while Jane and Ron discuss the book.

 

“Gandalf makes no sense at all,” he tells Jane, mouth full. “Alright, I get Muggles don’t understand magic, but even without that— it’s obvious he can Apparate! Why doesn’t he just take the dwarves straight to the Lonely Mountain instead of making them hike across the countryside?”

 

“Gandalf’s more than a wizard, Ron— at least, more than what our definition of a wizard is,” Jane explains. “He was chosen by a higher power— I believe it’s all explained in the Silmarillion.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Tolkien wrote several books about Middle Earth— the Silmarillion is something like a guide to the history of the world. I don’t own that one, though. I’ve only got  _ The Hobbit _ and  _ The Lord of the Rings _ trilogy.”

 

“ _ The Lord of the Rings _ ?”

 

Henry smiles into his glass at Ron’s interest. Ron has never shown an interest in anything Jane was reading, too entrenched in the goings on of Hogwarts to pay her any attention. The last ten hours of cramped, Muggle flight proved useful, it seems. They had something to talk about that didn’t involve Henry, homework, or rule breaking.

 

“After this, let’s have a look around the city,” Henry says as their waitress checks in. He smiles up at her. “Are there any good places to be tonight?”

 

The woman doesn’t even think about it.

 

“Pier 39’s a good place tonight,” she says. “Music and dancing and all that— but you’ll have to hurry so you don’t miss the finale.”

 

Henry looks at the others, then back to the waitress.

 

“That sounds alright,” he says. “Could you give us directions?”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Everybody’s dressed in red, white, and blue and waving little American flags. The smell of barbecue has Ron by the balls the moment they get there, and they follow his nose towards the hot dogs.

 

“You just ate, Ron,” Jane points out as he digs a few dollars out of his pocket to hand to the guy at the grill.

 

“And I’m still hungry.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes and turns to Henry.

 

“I forgot today was their Independence Day,” she says as Ron drowns his hot dog in ketchup. “We’ve landed in the middle of the world’s biggest birthday party.”

 

Henry grins.

 

“That’s great!” he says. “We’ve needed a good party.”

 

Jane laughs, taking two Solo cups from a cheerfully drunk Muggle and handing one to Henry. 

 

“I think this was the smartest choice we ever made,” she says. “Leaving.”

 

Henry sips the liquid in his cup. It’s beer— he wasn’t expecting that.

 

“Probably,” he agrees. “Are you surprised?”

 

“Well, I agreed to come, didn’t I?”

 

And— true. If Jane thought it was a stupid plan, she would have talked them out of it.

Henry sips his beer again. It’s bitter, and likely cheap, but he doesn’t care.

 

“America’s the best,” Ron says as he wanders back over, half a hot dog in his hands. “Everybody’s so friendly. There’s so much bloody  _ food _ .

 

“It’s not like this every day, Ron,” Jane says.

 

“Really? Well, whatever. It’s a good first impression.” He finishes his hot dog in one massive bite, licking his fingers absently.

 

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to Jane’s cup.

 

“Beer,” she says. “Have it.”

 

“Excellent.” Ron downs it in one go, grinning at their surprised looks.

 

“What? I’ve got five older brothers,” he says. “There’s a long and rich history of them all sneaking me something to drink at one point or another.” He crushes the cup and tosses it into a trash can. “I’m going to find some more. Join me?”

 

Henry grins and drains his cup too— though he chokes a little on the last swallow. It’s bitter, okay? Nothing like he’s ever drunk before.

 

“You two are going to get in trouble!” Jane says as they start towards the nearest keg. 

 

“Nothing like we could back home!” Henry calls over his shoulder.

 

“So why’s this all going on then?” Ron asks when Henry catches up to him.

 

“It’s Independence Day,” Harry says. “You know, when the Americans decided they didn’t want to be a British colony anymore.”

 

“Huh. I think I might have heard about that.” Ron turns to the man with the keg.

 

“Hello, me and my friend here just recently freed ourselves from British Tyranny and would like a beer to celebrate.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Fourth of July fireworks are beautiful, as it turns out, and a glorious way to end their first day on American soil.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Wake up, boys, or we’ll be late for the train!.”

 

Henry hears Ron groan from the other bed, but doesn’t open his eyes to check if he isn’t dying. He has a feeling that there would be consequences if he did.

 

“Ron! Henry!”

 

There’s another groan from Ron’s bed, followed by a panicked shout and the thump of someone falling out of bed. A few seconds later, Henry feels hands on his shoulders.

 

He bolts up.

 

“I’m awake, I’m— oh, fuck, my  _ head _ .”

 

“You two are hungover, and I don’t have any potions for it,” Jane says, unsympathetic. “There’s ginger ale in the fridge to settle your stomachs, but please, hurry it up.”

 

“Oka—” Ron stops, one hand over his mouth, pushing himself to his feet and rushing to the bathroom. There’s a pause, then the sound of vomiting.

 

Henry makes a face.

 

“Maybe next time you two will take it easy,” she says, pointedly not looking at the bathroom. “I’ve set out clothes for the both of you and packed everything else. We have time for a quick breakfast, if you hurry.”

 

“... Jane, I don’t think I can handle food right now.”

 

“Better to throw up eggs that bile, Henry,” she says resolutely. “Now, come on. Up.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Two hours later, they’ve eaten breakfast and are sitting on a Muggle train, halfway to Berkeley. Ron threw up twice before they boarded, and is now sleeping against the window, a pair of pink sunglasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. Henry just keeps his eyes closed, head balanced on Hermione’s shoulder while she reads.

 

They’re never drinking again.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“This is it?”

 

“Is it 1412 Bay Street?”

 

“That’s what it says.”

 

“Then it’s the place.”

 

Henry has the key clutched in his hand. He’d found it in the vaults after the goblins had informed him of the property. He imagines it was his mother’s key— the Brady Bunch keychain seems decidedly not-Magical.

 

“Okay,” he says, reaching up to unlock the door. “Here we are.”

 

The door swings open into the living room. The walls are panelled, the furniture is covered, and there’s a long shelf of dusty records wrapping around the whole of the room. It smells of dust, but underneath that, Henry thinks he can detect a hint of raspberry.

  
“Looks just fine,” Ron says, slapping him on the shoulder. “Now come on— I think I might need to throw up one more time before we can get to unpacking.”


	5. Chapter 5

There are five bedrooms in the house, three of which are occupied immediately after Ron casts a few cleaning spells.

 

“Mum’s used them all my life. I’ve picked up a few things,” he says with a shrug when he sees his friends’ faces. “I can do the rest of the house, too.”

 

“... Right. Alright.” Jane nods sharply. “I’ll get the sheets on. Henry, you go uncover the furniture and make a list of what we need. I can go grocery shopping when I’m done.”

 

The boys nod and head back downstairs.

 

“So, should I leave everything alone until after you’ve cast, or…”

 

Ron shakes his head.

 

“Spells first, I think,” he says. “To get the dust out of the sheets, too.”

 

Henry nods and steps back. 

 

Ron waves his wand at the room at large.

 

“ _ Tergeo _ .”

 

All the dust jumps as if drawn in by a giant vacuum, twisting and turning into a thin spiral until it disappears into the point of Ron’s wand. It’s almost violent, like a thousand pieces of sand have suddenly decided to pelt Henry in the back on their way to Ron’s wand.

 

And then, it’s all over.

 

“I’ll get the kitchen,” Ron says, already ambling away.

 

Well, okay then.

 

Henry peels away the sheets to find blue striped couches with wooden armrests and glass tables balances on heavy metal legs. It’s all quite ugly— but in a dated way, nothing at all like the decor of the Dursleys. It’s old, but it’s sturdy, and that’s just fine.

 

“There were plates in the cupboards,” Ron informs him as Henry folds up the last of the sheets. “I’ve got them in the wash right now.”

 

Henry nods.

 

“Good. Did you see anything obvious we’d need?”

 

“Nothing we’d need tonight besides food,” Ron says. “And dish soap.”

 

“What are you using now?”

 

“Baking soda— there was some under the sink.”

 

“Alright. Might as well add laundry detergent, too. Shampoo and soap, towels—”

 

“Hey Henry— what’s this thing? Some sort of radio?”

 

Henry blinks. He’d been so caught up in his list that he hadn’t noticed Ron wander away, surveying the strange, Muggle things scattered around the room— like the record player.

 

“Err, yeah, sort of.” Henry sticks the pencil behind his ear. “All the folders on the shelves? They’ve got recording of music in them.”

 

Ron is fascinated.

 

“Really?” he asks. “How does it work?”

 

“Um, well—” Henry scrambles for any memory of the Dursley’s old record player. “Well, first you pick a record. Then you put it on the tray thing here and set the needle bit on the edge.”

 

Henry demonstrates, flicking on the power and taking a record at random from the nearest shelf. It’s a Donna Summers record— he’s pretty sure he’s seen it tucked behind Petunia’s ‘company’ collection once when he was dusting. Henry’s never listened to it before— he’s never really had the time to care about music— but he sets up the record anyway.

 

There’s the uncomfortable scratch and pop of the needle falling into place, and then the music starts.

 

Ron’s eyes widen at the sudden burst of noise.

 

“ _ Sittin’ here eatin’ my heart out waitin’, waitin’ for some lover to call… _ ”

 

“I’ve never heard anything like this,” he says, taking the record sleeve from Henry. “This is Muggle music?”

 

“Yeah— disco, I think.”

 

“Wicked.” Ron stares at the woman on the cover. “Do they all sound like this?”

 

“No, not really— I mean, it depends on the genre.”

 

“What are you two doing?”

 

Jane sounds amused, but they jump like guilty children anyway.

 

“Ron didn’t know what a record player was,” Henry explains. “I was demonstrating.”

 

She hums.

 

“Your Mum had no account for taste, then, Henry,” she says bluntly. “Disco’s  _ awful _ .”

 

“It’s different,” Ron defends. “I’ve never heard anything like this.”

 

“Well, no, I guess not. Your Mum’s a little attached to Celestina Warbeck.” Jane wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never enjoyed jazz.”

 

“I don’t know what that is.”

 

“Music that sounds like Celestina Warbeck is jazz. Henry, are these all disco records?”

 

“I’ve no idea.”

 

Jane sighs.

 

“Well, if you’re interested, Ron, music that sounds like this is disco. If you find music that doesn’t sound like this, ask me or Henry. It isn’t too difficult to tell them apart.”

 

Henry looks at Ron and shrugs. He probably won’t be much help.

 

“Is this the list?” Jane asks, picking up the scrap of paper Henry had left on the counter.

 

“Oh— yeah. I haven’t put down any groceries, though.”

 

“That’s fine, I’ll handle it. Figure out if the television works, will you?”

 

She points to the wooden box on the floor— and yeah, that is a television— before grabbing the keys and her purse from the counter.

 

“I’ll be back.”

 

She disappears out the front door, leaving Ron to stare curiously at the television.

 

“Dad had a couple of these in the shed,” he tells Henry after a moment. “But he could never figure out how it worked.”

 

Henry grins.

 

“Well, Ron, this’ll be a treat,” he says, kneeling before the box. “This is one of the greatest Muggle inventions of all time.”

  
  


*.*

 

They eat spaghetti for dinner off of orange-yellow-brown plates. The television does work, thankfully, even if they do have to get up to change the channel, so they settle on a comedy cartoon about a strange yellow family and talk about what it is, exactly, they want to do.

 

So far, only Jane has a plan.

 

“I’d like to enroll into school again,” she says, wiping canned sauce off her face with a paper towel. “Muggle school.”

 

Henry nods slowly.

 

“Do you need a tutor?”

 

Jane tugs at a curl absently.

 

“I tried to keep up— Mum had me taking classes over the summer, when I could,” she says. “But I think… yes, I think I’ll need a tutor.”

 

Henry nods.

 

“Figure it out,” he says. “I’ve got the money to spare.”

 

She nods.

 

“... What about you?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“I think I’ll try and start a garden, or something,” he says. “Get a library card and catch up on some reading. I’m not smart enough to go back to Muggle school, not now.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true, Henry. If you just put in a little effort—”

 

“I don’t want to, either.” Henry runs a hand through his hair. It’s gotten long, over the summer, nearly long enough to pull back into a ponytail. “Muggle school’s not for me, anymore than Hogwarts is, now. I’d rather try to learn on my own. I’ve got the time.”

 

“Same for me, Jane,” Ron adds, reaching for the parmesan shaker. “I hated school.”

 

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have an education, Ronald!” Jane pauses, lips pinching. “Sorry. It’s just— how are we going to do anything if we don’t keep up with our studies? How— what about magic?”

 

“To be fair, he doesn’t know too much about the Muggle world,” Henry offers quietly. “Maybe he ought to get acquainted with how it works before he decides on something like that.

 

“As for magic… I love magic, Jane. We all do.” He sighs. “I just… I think we should settle down first before we try and join the Magical world here. We’ve got all the time in the world for that, don’t you think?”

 

“I— yes, I suppose, but—”

 

“You could focus on Muggle school, if you wanted to,” Henry points out, smiling slightly. “If you get bored with only one class load, we could always get a tutor later.”

 

“I—”

 

“Now Jane, you don’t want to overwork yourself,” Ron teases through his mouthful. “Your grades’ll suffer that way.”

 

Jane throws a napkin at him.

 

“You two are the worst,” she says flatly.

 

“Find yourself a tutor,” Henry says, chuckling quietly. “I’ll pay for it, and with any luck you can start this fall, alright?”

 

She sits back, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

 

“Thank you, Harry.”

 

“... It’s Henry, now. You know that.”

  
“... Yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Ron, what are you doing?”

 

“Watching the television.”

 

Yes, he is. Trouble is, when he and Jane went to bed last night, they’d let the redhead in the same position.

 

“I see that. Have you been watching all night?”

 

“... What time is it?”

 

Henry glances at his watch.

 

“Nine o’clock.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Oh.” Henry pauses. “Anything interesting?”

 

“Yeah. Have you ever heard of  _ Star Trek _ ?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of it.” It was one of Dudley’s favorites.

 

“It’s pretty good— there’s two different series, it’s so good.”

 

“You like it, then?”

 

“It’s all about space travel,” Ron says a little dreamily. “Did you know that Muggles have walked on the moon?”

 

“In 1969, yeah— I watched the footage in school when I was a kid.”

 

“I didn’t know that.” The redhead turns to Henry. “It’s pretty amazing, I mean— even without magic, they managed to do that. Wizards haven’t ever even thought about that sort of thing.”

 

“Yeah, well, Muggles like to change. They have to, to survive.” He scratches absently at his chin. “I was going to put the kettle on and start breakfast. Eggs and bacon alright?”

 

“That sounds perfect.”

 

“What are you two doing up so early?”

 

Both boys turn to see a groggy Jane making her way downstairs, hair still wrapped for bed in a silk scarf.

 

“I was going to make breakfast,” Henry says. “Ron hasn’t slept yet.”

 

“Have you ever heard of  _ Star Trek _ , Jane?”

 

Jane— who had looked like she’d been gearing up for a lecture not a moment before— lights up.

 

“Is that what’s kept you up? What station?”

 

Ron shrugs.

 

“Whatever this one is. I don’t know how to change it.”

 

“Oh,  _ Star Trek _ ’s amazing— have you been watching Next Generation or The Original Series?”

 

“They played an episode with Captain Picard, and then they switched to Captain Kirk for the rest of the night.”

 

Jane sits down on the couch beside him.

 

“I love Kirk,” she says. “He’s so bloody  _ clever _ — he always wins.”

 

“A bit reckless, though.” Ron grins. “Kind of like Henry.”

 

Henry rolls his eyes.

 

“Whatever. Jane, do you want tea?”

 

“Yes please— is it just me, Ron, or do you think Kirk’s a Gryffindor?”

 

Henry leaves them to it. Dudley only watched the one with Captain Picard, anyway. He doesn’t know too much about the subject— though he’s under the impression he’ll be educated very soon.

  
  


*.*

  
  


They fall into a very easy routine for the remainder of the summer. 

 

Jane finds a tutor post-haste, and spends her afternoons on the other side of town, preparing and revising and reviewing because she’s going to go to  _ school _ , goddammit, even if she half-kills herself to do it. With any luck, she’ll be starting in her sophomore year, where she ought to be.

 

Ron spends his time in the house. He works his way through the extensive record collection the Potters left behind, reorganizing the records by what he likes and what he dislikes. At eight o’clock, he shuts off the record player and sets the table while Henry puts the finishing touches on dinner. He flicks on the television right around the time that Jane stumbles in, and leaves it on until morning.

 

(He says he’s catching up on Muggle things, so to help, Henry uses that library card of his to pick up everything Tolkien. Ron appreciates it.)

 

And Henry? Well, Henry does this and that. The first week or so he goes through whatever his parents had moved to the house— namely, clothes, photographs, and books. His Mum had her old diaries sent over from when she was a kid. Henry reds through them and grimaces at her horrible taste in friends (Snape? Really?).

 

After that, he explores a little more. He goes to the library a lot, borrowing whatever happens to catch his fancy for the nights when he finds he can’t sleep but doesn’t want to go downstairs. There’s a thrift store a few blocks from the house, a Blockbuster a few blocks in the other direction. He takes advantage of both, and buys jeans that fit and a series of cardigans to wear over his beaters and figures out how to work the old-fashioned VHS player so Ron has something to do during the infomercial hour.

 

Their lives are aimless (except for, of course, Jane), but pleasant. Their time is spent however they like, and they live without the fear of Voldemort or evil defense professors looming in the not too distant future.

 

It’s nice.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Sometime in mid-August, Henry checks his letterbox (the Magical one, the one connected to Mr. Greengrass’ office and Gringotts so he can keep an eye on his financial and legal matters) and finds a letter that has nothing to do with properties, bank statements, or law.

  
  


_ Lord Potter, _

 

_ I feel it is proper to inform you that it has been rumored that the youngest Weasley son has been kidnapped. There is no inquiry yet as to yours or Miss Granger’s whereabouts, though it will certainly follow upon the discovery of your withdrawal from Hogwarts in September. _

 

_ In other news, there is no news. The Daily Prophet continues to slander the names Potter and Dumbledore. The only publication, in fact, that hasn’t made an effort to destroy your legacy, is a small tabloid by the name of The Quibbler. It is considered unreliable, but I thought the bright spot might make you smile. I’ve sent along a copy, if you’d like to read it. _

 

_ Yours, _

_ Merrick Lawrence Greengrass, Esq. _

 

_ P.S. _

 

_ Daphne says hello, and wishes for you to write her. I’d suggest you do so. _

  
  


Henry reads it twice, then picks up the magazine, smiling at the glossy cover as he reads the title of the featured article—  _ Azkaban Exposed: Illegal Magical Testing On Muggles! _

 

The Quibbler sounds like a newspaper he can believe in.

 

“What are you smiling about?” Ron asks from where he’s seated in front of the record player when Henry pads into the living room.

 

“Mr. Greengrass sent me a magazine that doesn’t hate me,” Henry says. “And news.”

 

Ron frowns.

 

“What sort of news?”

 

Henry’s smile fades.

 

“Rumors are going around about you missing,” he says. “Looks like your Dad or someone let something slip.”

 

Sorrow flashes across Ron’s face.

 

“... Shit.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s probably hard on Mum,” Ron says. “I bet she’s going mad with worry.”

 

“Once school starts, we’ll send something along to Daphne,” Henry says. “She can pass it on to the twins. Maybe a few photos.”

 

The redhead nods absently, brow furrowed.

 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

 

Henry sits down beside him, shifting a pile of records over so he can lean against his friend.

 

“What are you listening to?” he asks, nodding to the record in Ron’s hand.

 

“I don’t know— I haven’t put it on yet.”

 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on.”

 

Ron rolls his eyes and tugs the record out of its sleeve, setting it on the slipmat.

 

Gentle piano, a tambourine, and the solid thump of a kick drum open up to an almost timid greeting.

 

“ _ Hi, hello, wake from the sleep, God has given, your soul to keep _ …”

 

“What sort of music is this?” Ron asks, frowning slightly.

 

“I don’t know. I like it, though.” Henry glances at the album. Patti Smith, huh. “If you decide you don’t like it, set it aside for me, alright?”

 

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Ron says. “I just don’t know what it is.”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“It doesn’t matter, really,” he says. “What the genre is. Not unless you’re particularly attached to one, anyway.”

 

“Muggles seem to care a lot about genre,” Ron points out.

 

“That’s because they’ve got substantially more music to work with, I think. It makes it easier to find what you like best, you know?”

 

“I guess.”

 

Eventually they lie back on the floor, shoulder to shoulder as they stare up at the off-white popcorn ceiling.

 

Ron only moves to flip the record.

  
They listen to it until Jane gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot escape the Star Trek.
> 
> In other news, I've started a dreamwidth account! Check there for old, weird, self-indulgent fics about Bleach (for now) and eventually Harry Potter and Star Trek and who knows what else! I have to finish digging through my archives.


	7. Chapter 7

“Henry, do you have a jacket I could borrow?”

 

Henry groans into his pillow.

 

“Ron, it’s August— what do you need a bloody jacket for?”

 

“My shoulders keep getting cold when I go out.” Ron shrugs. “It’s nearly September.”

 

Sighing, Henry pushes himself out of his bed, puts on his glasses, and pads over to the closet.

 

He hasn’t thrown out any of the clothes his parents left in the closet, can’t bear to, so instead, he’s split itin half. He goes to the half that isn’t his, because nothing he wears will fit Ron’s tall frame.

 

He sorts through long-collared polos and multi-patterned button-downs until he comes across what he’s looking for— the faded denim jacket that likely at some point belonged to Sirius, if the patches are anything to go by.

 

He tosses it at Ron.

 

“Here. See if this fits.”

 

Ron catches the jacket and stares curiously at the patches.

 

“This is one of the records I have ready for today,” he says, fingering one of the patches carefully. “The Stooges.”

 

“Fantastic. Try it on.”

 

Ron obeys. It’s a little short, riding a little high around his waist, but the sleeves are long and the shoulders are loose.

 

“Good?”

 

“Just fine.”

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Jane wants to visit some of the shops on Main St.,” he says. “Wanna come?”

 

Henry thinks about it.

 

“... I’ll be down in a minute,” he decides. “I just need to get dressed.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Smile!”

 

Henry blinks dumbly as the flash of Jane’s newly-purchased polaroid camera goes off in his peripheral.

 

“Huh?”

 

Jane clicks her tongue.

 

“Come on, Henry, you’ve got to smile,” she says. “We need some good pictures to send home.”

 

“Then stop surprising me!”

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

“They’re called candid photos, Henry.”

 

“Then why do I have to smile?”

 

He grins at her frustrated huff and is rewarded by Ron taking the camera and snapping another photo.

 

“There, Jane,” he says, carefully handing her the print. “Got one.”

 

“Thank you, Ronald.” She shakes the paper absently and sets it on the table. “So, classes start in a week, for me.”

 

“Where’s this school again?”

 

“A few blocks down from the grocery store. Past the park.”

 

“That’s a bit of a walk.”

 

“Not too bad.” Jane smiles slightly. “This is the first time I’ve been able to walk home after school in... five years.”

 

“Did you?” Ron asks. “Mum just homeschooled us.”

 

“Really?” Jane pauses, then shakes her head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter right now. Henry, do you plan on continuing your Magical education?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“I haven’t thought about it,” he says. “Doesn’t really seem necessary, you know?”

 

“Of course it is, Henry— why would you say that?”

 

“I’ve got books if I need anything. Do I really need Care of Magical Creatures?” Henry says. “If I get bored I’ll self-study. It’s not like there’s much else to do.”

 

“Same for me, honestly.” Ron shrugs. “I never cared too much about school. I was just going to stay until I finished my OWLs.”

 

“And do what, exactly?”

 

“Work with the twins.” And, oh, right. Sometimes they forget that Ron’s close with his siblings.

 

“Well, regardless, you two should really keep up your schooling,” Jane says. “It’s no good, letting yourselves rot.”

 

“I’m assuming this whole conversation is you trying to say you want a Magical tutor, right?” Henry asks. Ron shoots him a grateful look.

 

“Well, yes— I’m just not sure where you’ll find one here.” Jane frowns slightly. “The American Magical community is focused mostly on the East coast, with a few pockets here and there in larger cities. They’re very difficult to find, let alone enter.”

 

“I’ll figure something out for you,” Henry promises. “I have an appointment with the Gringotts goblins in October, I’ll see if I can get a list of potential teachers for you.”

 

Jane smiles, tension easing in her face.

 

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s all I want.”

 

“Of course— speaking of school, are you going to be in the class you wanted?”

 

“Oh, yes— I’ll be starting sophomore year.” She begins to explain the American school system, leaving the subject of Magical schooling behind. Neither of the boys mind.

  
She’s happy.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you sure Greengrass is going to help us?” Ron asks skeptically as Henry ties their letters together. “I mean, I get she’s helping out her dad, but… she’s a  _ Slytherin _ .”

 

“Daphne’s alright,” Henry says. “And she seems to like the idea of playing messenger— especially since it all has to be done in secret.” He pauses. “She might be a bit mad.”

 

Ron has two letters to send— one for his parents, and one for his siblings at Hogwarts. Henry has one for Sirius. Jane doesn’t send any— she plans on sending her letters through Muggle mail.

 

“Probably,” Ron agrees. “How do you think everyone’s taking our disappearing?”

 

“Badly.”

 

“Yeah. Probably.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Sirius should have expected Harry to run eventually, if he’s honest with himself. It’s what he would have done.

 

Number 12, Grimmauld Place has been in an uproar since Ron disappeared from his bed. It only got worse when the Order realized that Mundungus botched his _only_ _job_ and left Harry to his own devices— those devices apparently being the orchestration of the disappearance of three underage wizards.

 

A large part of Sirius is rather proud of his godson for getting away with such a scheme. Other than a few vagueries about Australia offered by the Dursleys, the Order has no idea where he is.

 

If he shoves away the worry— and there isn’t much, considering Harry has long since proven he can just about take care of himself— Sirius likes to think his godson’s leaving has led to somewhat of an improvement on his living conditions. Molly’s bedridden, which means the cleaning of Grimmauld Place has finally been turned over to a few Hogwarts house elves per Dumbledore’s orders. It’s two birds with one stone— the house is cleaner than Sirius has ever seen it, and Molly’s hysteria has been shuttered into one of the spare rooms on the second floor.

 

Maybe it’s rude to think that way, but it’s the truth.

 

It’s odd, how little people think of teenagers. Maybe it’s just Sirius, but based on the way the Order talks about Harry and his friends, you’d think he was still a year and change old, shitting his pants and crying when he falls off his toy broom. But maybe Sirius is biased— when he was fourteen, he was already halfway towards becoming an Animagus, along with his friends. When he was fourteen, he’d already taken part in the invention of the Marauders’ Map, and had put it to good use.

 

Whatever. As far as he’s concerned, Harry’s got the right idea, getting away from all this madness. If Sirius wasn’t a wanted man, he’d probably have jumped ship, too.

 

That’s what he thinks for the first three weeks or so. Then, he starts to worry a little bit more. Harry’s not quite fifteen, after all. His friends aren’t much older. Yeah, he has money, but he’s famous, too, and that’s not a good thing to be, when you’re on the run. Sirius knows, he’s done it. It’s inevitable that they’ll be found. The trouble is, will they be found by the Order, or will they be found by somebody else?

 

Molly doesn’t have much to say on the matter. She keeps to her room, with a handful of smelling salts and a somewhat frustrated Ginny to tend to her.

 

Another month passes. Severus is replaced by Slughorn as Potions teacher so he can focus wholly on the search for Harry. Sirius is pleased to see less of his greasy head, but recognizes just like Remus does that Dumbledore would only do that if there was no other option.

 

“Harry’s done something to make sure we can’t find him,” Remus says as Sirius tends to Buckbeak’s molting wings. “Something too clever to have been done on his own.”

 

“That just means Hermione helped,” Sirius says absently. “Everyone talks about how clever she is.”

 

Remus shakes his head.

 

“Not like this, she isn’t,” he says. “She’s one for the rules— she’s a smart girl, but whatever it is that’s going on isn’t her handiwork. This… this required some lateral thinking. Did you hear about her parents?”

 

“Missing, I know.”

 

“No— Severus found them, somewhere in Brisbane. Obliviated.”

 

Sirius stops.

 

“What?”

 

“They’d been Obliviated. Given new identities, new jobs, new neighbors. They’ve got no idea they’ve got a daughter. Claim they’ve never wanted children.”

 

“... Shit.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Did Snape bring them back?”

 

“What’s the point? They’re Muggles— it’s not like they could help us. And anyway, it might be for the best. Things are going to get ugly in Britain, you know that.”

 

“... Yeah.” Buckbeak nudges at Sirius’ arm, pushing until his great head is situated in the man’s lap. “You know, Remus, maybe Harry’s got the right idea, running away.”

 

“ _ If _ it’s his idea, maybe. We haven’t ruled out the possibility he was kidnapped quite yet.” Remus smiles sardonically at Sirius’ confused expression. “Come on, Sirius. Don’t you think I’ve entertained the idea of leaving?”

 

“Why haven’t you tried?”

 

He shrugs. “It’s hard to get a visa when you’re a werewolf.”

 

And— yeah, that would be a problem.

 

“We could be fugitives together,” Sirius offers lightly. “Run off and see the world. Hell, maybe we’d bump into Harry along the way. We’ve got that sort of luck.”

 

Remus snorts.

 

“Yeah, right. And how do you plan on getting out of the country.”

 

“The Blacks have their ways.” Sirius has even used a few of those ways, a time or two. “I could get us out with no one the wiser.”

 

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

His friend doesn’t say anymore, and after a minute or two, Sirius gets back to grooming Buckbeak.

 

Maybe they’ll talk about it later.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The twins send Sirius a care package not three days after school starts.

 

_ To Our Greatest Inspiration _ , it says.  _ May You Find Us As Hilarious As We Find Ourselves _ .

 

It makes Sirius snort before he tears off the bright purple package paper. There are joke wands and trick sweets, a deck of cards that always gives you a bad hand in poker… nothing new. Nothing he hasn’t seen before.

 

Then, he gets to the bottom.

 

There are two letters, and a note.

  
  


_ Snuffles, _

 

_ It looks like we’ve got contact. One’s for Mum and Dad, and one’s for you. We suggest you give the letter to Dad. _

 

_ Fred and George _

  
  


Sirius picks up the envelopes with shaking hands. He sees two sets of handwriting— Harry’s, and what he assumes is Ron’s.

 

He sets aside the Weasleys’ letter and tears open the one that simply reads  _ Padfoot _ .

 

There’s a letter, and three photographs.

  
  


_ Padfoot, _

 

_ I’m not sure what chaos we created in the wake of our great escape, but I’m sure it’s been a pain. I’m sorry about that, but not enough to come back. I quite like it here. _

 

_ I’m alright. We’re all alright, living comfortably off the Potter fortune in a place only you might find us. Hermione’s enrolled in Muggle school, and we’re looking for a Magical tutor for her, as well. Ron and I aren’t planning on continuing our Magical education, but those plans might change as we adjust to our new lives. _

 

_ Ron says you’re staying at Headquarters, wherever that is. Don’t go too mad, alright? We might have a place for you, if it all works out the way I’d like it to. _

 

_ Tell Remus we say hello, if you can. Tell him we’re okay, and that Hermione’s keeping us in line. _

 

_ Harry _

 

_ P.S. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone about this letter— some things are better kept between us, don’t you think? _

  
  


Sirius reads the letter twice, then stuffs it in his pocket before anyone can catch him with it. If Harry’s reached out, then he’s alright. The worry that’s been building in the hollow of his chest is gone, just like that.

 

Carefully, like they might crumble under his fingers, he picks up the photographs.

 

They’ve been taken by a Muggle camera, that much is immediately obvious. The first photograph is of Harry and Ron, grinning brightly up at the camera from their place on a familiar blue sofa, half-covered by a plaid blanket. Ron has a Muggle beer bottle in his hand, and Harry has his glasses off. He looks more like his mother that way.

 

Sirius flips the photo over. In Harry’s writing it reads:  _ Fourth night in the house. Ron’s a fan of Pabst Blue Ribbon _ .

 

The next photograph is of Harry and Hermione. They’re standing in an outdated kitchen, Hermione wearing rubber gloves to her elbows and Harry clutching a sponge. They’re both soaked, and there’s soap in Harry’s hair. Pieces of a broken dish are are stacked beside the overflowing sink. They’re laughing.

 

_ She likes to do dishes the Muggle way. She also doesn’t know how to stay dry doing it. _

 

Sirius snorts. Lily used to say the same about James, back in the day. He doesn’t think Harry ever mentioned anything about a crush, but what does he know?

 

The last of the three has obviously been taken by a third party, perhaps a passing stranger, or a new friend. They’re all seated on a park bench, grinning like somebody whispered a dirty joke. Harry is wearing a Gryffindor red cardigan and shorts, the absolute disaster, and Ron’s wearing a patched up jacket that’s more than a little memorable. Hermione’s sat between them, prim and proper in a bright pink tanktop and shorts.

 

_ Ron took your jacket. Sorry about that. _

 

Sirius blinks, then reads the note again.

 

So that’s where they went, he thinks, a smile curving his lips. He told his relatives he went to Australia, of all places, when really…

 

Clever boy.

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Dear Mum and Dad, _

 

_ I know you aren’t taking my leaving very well, and I’m sorry. I know it was a shock you didn’t need, on top of everything else that’s happening. I promise I’m fine, though. We’re probably safer now than we ever were in England. _

 

_ We traveled for a bit— saw a few places between home and here. We’ve got a house in Melbourne that’s pretty nice. I think you’d like it. We’re staying here for now, but my head out to New Zealand for a quick holiday. Hermione’s excited to see some sort of devil thing there, and I think it’s probably best to keep her happy. Elsewise she’d probably explode. _

 

_ Harry really likes traveling around. Those Muggle never took him with when they went on holiday and things, so he’s finally getting to see some of the world. We stopped in Barcelona and then Madrid, then Paris for a few days before coming here. It’s a shame we didn’t have  camera then. The photographs would have been really wicked. _

 

_ The point of this letter is mostly just to tell you we’re okay. Nothing’s happened. No kidnapping, minimal stupidity, and mostly a lot of sight-seeing. With any luck you’ll see me again before too long, alright? Love you, Mum. Dad. _

 

_ Your favorite son, _

_ Ron _


	9. Chapter 9

“We’re going to need a telephone,” Jane informs Henry after her first day of class. “My English course requires a lot of work to be done in pairs, and I need to be able to contact Jenny should something happen.”

 

“Sure.” Henry pauses. “You need partners? For English?”

 

Jane rolls her eyes.

 

“Mr. Erikson— that’s my English teacher— believes group work will motivate us to stay on top of our homework,” she explains. “I suppose some people need that sort of thing.”

 

Ron snorts into his potatoes. Jane shoots him a glare before continuing.

 

“It could be worse, I suppose. Despite Jenny’s… strange sense of fashion, she claims she’s already read the books we need for the year.”

 

“Maybe she’ll be able to keep up with you.”

 

“She’d better. Do you know we’re not allowed to request new partners? If she doesn’t pull her weight,  _ my _ grades will suffer. Tell me how that’s fair?”

 

“Sounds like Snape,” Henry remarks.

 

“Oh, no— he’s much nicer, but still. If you were to look at this girl…” Jane trails off, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Jane,” Ron says comfortingly. “You’ve always been the best at school, out of all of us.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I won’t be dragged down by an incompetent partner.”

 

Henry pas her hand gently.

 

“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “It’s bad for your digestion, you know.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes, but lets the subject drop in favor of Ron’s new topic of conversation.

 

“While I agree that Kirk is definitely a Gryffindor and Spock’s a Ravenclaw, I don’t think McCoy’s Ravenclaw material.”

 

“Really? Where do you think he belongs, then?”

 

“Hufflepuff— here’s why.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


The phone rings for the first time about three days after Jane helps Henry install it. Jane isn’t home, and only she and her partner have the number, so Henry picks up.

 

“Ron, turn down the music– hello?”

 

“Hi, Henry, it’s Jane. Listen, Jenny and I need to stop by the house, alright? So do try and clean up.”

 

Henry blinks. A Muggle? In the house? 

 

He takes a look around. Nothing obviously Magical’s been left out, besides the empty bottle of Firewhiskey they’d found in the liquor cabinet last night.

 

“Henry?”

 

Oh, right.

 

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” he says. “No problem.”

 

“Good. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

 

Henry hangs up.

 

“Was that Jane?” Ron asks, hand on the volume.

 

“Yeah, she’s bringing her friend from school over. No magic.”

 

“Right, okay.” Turning the music up, the redhead lies back again, knees balanced against the coffee table.

 

Eight minutes later, there’s the sound of the front door opening and conversation.

 

“You’ve never read  _ Anthem _ ? It’s Ayn Rand’s best book!”

 

“Honestly, I was always so backed up with schoolwork that I just didn’t have the time for leisure reading— Henry, there you are.” Jane drops her school bag on the floor next to the door, gesturing for the girl beside her to do the same. “Henry, this is Jenny, my English partner. Jenny, this is my brother, Henry.”

 

Henry puts out a hand.

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

Henry understands Jane’s trepidation about the girl, now that he has a look at her. Her bleach blonde hair is tangled and parted down the middle, her lipstick is read and slightly smeared, she has a ring through her nose, and her overlarge plaid shirt appears to be acting as a scandalously short dress.

 

Jenny smiles brightly at him, black-nailed fingers clasping his offered hand and shaking firmly.

 

“Nice to meet you too, Henry,” she greets. “You aren’t black.”

 

Henry blinks.

 

“Er… adopted,” he says.

 

“Oh, cool!” Jenny steps closer, peering into the living room. “Is that a Clash record?”

 

“I’m not sure, Ron— my other brother— is working through Henry’s parents’ old collection. Ron, come say hello.” Jane pulls off her jacket— brown, fringe suede, another remnant of the Potter closet— and tosses it over the chair.

 

Ron looks over, waving at the girl before pushing himself up to lower the music again.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that— I love this album.” Jenny wanders over, peering at the record sleeve curiously. “This is an original pressing, fuck, that’s so cool.”

 

“Er… is it?” Ron asks dumbly.

 

“Yeah, look. See the date? 1977.” Jenny points. “Damn, your parents must be amazing, if they’ve got stuff like this.”

 

“Yeah,” Henry agrees. “Want anything? Tea?”

 

“Oh, yeah! I’ve never had tea made by a British person. You must be really good at it.”

 

Ron’s staring at Jane from behind Jenny’s knees, one eyebrow arched. Jane shrugs helplessly.

 

“I’ve had some practice,” Henry agrees. “Ron’s tea’s best, though.”

 

“I’d like a cuppa, as well,” Jane says. “Ron, would you?”

 

“Yeah, why not.” Ron pushes himself to his feet, then takes a moment to stare.

 

“Are you— are you only wearing a shirt?” he asks, bewildered.

 

Jenny giggles.

 

“Yeah— it’s my brother’s old one. He was going to trash it, can you believe him?”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

There’s a pause as he continues to stare. Finally, Jenny clears her throat.

 

“So, tea, then?”

 

Ron blinks.

 

“Right, tea.” Turning away, he disappears into the kitchen.

 

Jane sighs.

 

“Don’t mind him, he’s a little odd,” she says. “Come on. We can discuss our project in the kitchen. Henry, are you coming?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“So like, you guys live alone?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“Well, we live with each other, technically, but yeah.”

 

“That’s  _ awesome _ .” Jenny grins around her mug. “And you and Ron don’t go to school? At all?”

 

“N-no, not really, no.”

 

“You don’t have like, truancy officers on your ass, or anything?”

 

Jenny curses a lot, Henry has realized. It’s so refreshingly… American.

 

“We’re technically emancipated minors,” Jane explains, glaring at Henry when he takes too long to answer. “So we don’t have to go to school. I’ve been trying to get Henry and Ron to at least get a tutor, but they’re not having it.”

 

“They’ve got the right idea,” Jenny says. “School’s not for learning, nowadays. If you want to learn shit, you’ve got to go out. Experience the world, you know? School’s super conformist and shitty if you don’t learn the right way.”

 

“I— excuse me?” Ron snickers at Jane’s scandalized tone.

 

“Seriously— public school’s so fucked by government interference it’s barely worth going. You can be a complete retard and still pass, so like, what’s the point, you know?” Jenny pauses. “Is it different, in England?”

 

“From what we’ve been hearing, it’s starting to get like that,” Henry says, thinking of Daphne’s most recent letter about her newest Defense teacher. “Though, we wouldn’t really know— we were in boarding school until this summer.”

 

“Boarding school? Did you guys ever like, meet the princes or anything?”

 

Henry can’t help it. He snorts.

 

“Nah, we didn’t go to their school,” he says. “Though we did know a couple of Pure— old blood tossers. Right, Ron?”

 

Ron had been in somewhat of a stupor the entire conversation. He jerks at being spoken to directly.

 

“What? Right. Yeah.” His lip curls. “Bet you Malfoy’s doing wonderfully, this year.”

 

“Probably.” Jane snorts. “A ministry toadie at our school? I bet he creamed himself at the thought—” she stops, turning to glare at Jenny. “I’ve been talking to you too long. I never talk like that.”

 

Jenny laughs.

 

“I’m like that,” she says. “Hey, Ron?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Your tea’s really good.”

 

Ron’s ears go red.

 

“I— thanks. Er... I like your shoes.”

 

“My Docs? Oh, yeah, they’re amazing. British brand, too.”

 

“They’re wicked,” he says honestly, and— oh.  _ Oh _ .

 

Henry thinks he smells a crush.

 

Jenny’s attention is completely on Ron now, blue eyes sparkling with the same conclusion that Henry’s come to.

 

“If you want, i might be able to hook you up with a pair,” she says. “I’ve got a connection— they’re expensive, though. I had to save for months.”

 

“I— I’ve got the money.”

 

“Cool! We’ll go sometime, talk about music or something. Get lunch?”

 

“Sure, we can do that. I like lunch.”

 

Jenny grins.

 

“I like lunch too,” she says, setting down her mug. “I’ll call you, alright? Right now, though— Janey, I think we better get going.”

 

Jane blinks.

 

“Oh, right.” She glances at her watch. “Damn. The library’s going to close in an hour.”

 

“Shit, we  _ really _ better get going.” Jenny gets to her feet. “It was nice meeting you, Ron. Henry.”

 

“Nice meeting you too, Jenny.” Henry smirks as Ron fumbles to get to his feet— looks like those Pureblood manners haven’t completely disappeared in their time here.

 

Ron puts out his hand.

 

“It was nice talking to you,” he says. His flush has long since creeped lower than his ears, turning the back of his neck and shoulders a bright, flaming red.

 

Jenny ignores his hand, pulling him into an overly familiar hug.

 

“I’ll call you,” she promises, pulling away.

 

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

Jane looks like she’s seconds from laughing as she herds Jenny out of the house. Henry isn’t bothering to hide it, which just makes Ron hit him.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“‘I like your shoes’, hell, Ron, what kind of a line was that?”

 

“I liked them!”

 

“You liked the girl in them, definitely.”

 

Ron rolls his eyes and hits him again.

 

“Shut up, Harry,” he mutters, using Henry’s old name. “She seemed nice, for a Muggle.”

 

Henry takes a deep breath, wiping at his eyes.

 

“Yeah, sure. She’s pretty, too, I’ll give you that.”

 

Ron sits back in his chair, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

 

“What did I just do, Henry?”

 

“Well, I dunno, Ron. It sort of seems like you got a date.”

 

Ron’s head thunks lightly onto the table.

  
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “With a Muggle girl. Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Finally, right?
> 
> Starting to pull some plot together, so that's cool, I guess. In this universe, Hermione recognizes she and Ron aren't compatible and their mutual crush dies early. They have their first, proper, American friend, and she's obnoxious as hell. I love her.


	10. Chapter 10

Jane thinks it’s quite adorable, the way Ron fusses with his clothes before he leaves. He’s not wearing anything fancy— just Sirius’ jacket, a plain shirt, and jeans. But the way he keeps checking himself in the mirror, one might think it was the Yule Ball all over again.

 

“You look fine, Ronald,” she says finally, reclined across the couch. “Jenny saw you in your pajamas and she still thought you were worth going out with.”

 

“Merlin knows why. I hadn’t showered in three days.”

 

“Jenny doesn’t mind that.”

 

“She doesn’t?”

 

Jane shakes her head.

 

“I’ve seen her friends at school. Unwashed, unkempt punks with colored hair and black clothes. If it weren’t for her academic performance, I’d think she was as burnt out as the rest of them.”

 

“Academic— she’s a good student?”

 

“First in her class since primary school.” Jane yawns. “Where are you meeting her?”

 

“Some cafe on Thirtieth. Oh— what’s a vegan?”

 

“Someone who doesn’t eat meat, milk, or eggs.”

 

“How can anyone live like that?”

 

“No idea. Why do you ask?”

 

“She said the place had good vegan chili, apparently.”

 

Jane smiles.

 

“Well, test it and see if it’s any good,” she says. “And Ron?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Try not to be weird.”

 

Ron makes a face and checks his hair again. Then he grabs his key.

 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says. “Alright?”

 

Jane waves him off. “Go, Ron. Have fun.”

 

Ron pauses, grinning brightly.

 

“I’ll tell you about it when I get back, alright?”

 

“ _ Go _ , Ron.”

 

The screen door slams shut behind him, and finally, Jane can have a moment of piece.

 

“Hey, Jane.”

 

Or not.

 

Sighing to herself, she stretches, eyes slipping shut in pleasure as her spine cracks.

 

“Did Ron leave for his date already?”

 

“Yes, he did, and he didn’t look away from the damn mirror until I practically shoved him out the door.”

 

“You look like you haven’t moved in hours.”

 

She hadn’t. Instead, she’d buried herself in her reading. She must admit, she’s forgotten how fascinating Muggle fiction can be.

 

“ _ Verbally _ , I shoved him out.”

 

“Ah.”

 

An odd, familiar smell tickles her nose. She looks up at Henry.

 

“Henry, what’s that smell?”

 

He hold up a hand. A long, thin cigarette protrudes awkwardly from between his first two fingers.

 

“So I’ve picked up a hobby,” he says.

 

“... Smoking? Really?” Jane wrinkles her nose. “It yellows your teeth, you know. And kills you.”

 

“Yeah. I quite like it.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales slowly.

 

Jane watches gray smoke blow out from his nose, curling delicately before dissipating.

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yeah. Want one?”

 

“I…” Jane thinks about it. Logically, smoking is terrible for your health. It smells, it messes up your skin, your teeth, your lungs, it causes cancer and all manner of horrible diseases…

 

… But then, she probably won’t live to see thirty anyway, if anyone catches on to where they actually are.

 

“Fine.”

 

Henry collapses into the seat beside her, digging the crumpled packet out of his jeans and a small box of matches. He plucks out a cigarette and hands it and the matches to her.

 

It takes two tries before she lights it, and a coughing fit before she figures out how to inhale.

 

“It’s not so bad,” she decides after a few minutes of silence. “I think I like your new hobby.”

 

“Oh good, because I’ve got a whole carton in the kitchen.”

 

“Oh, honestly, Henry.” Jane shakes her head. “Go put a record on. The quiet’s too odd.”

 

Snorting, he pushes himself to his feet and wanders over to the record player. A few minutes later, the voice of David Bowie fills the room.

 

Sighing to herself, she absently transfigures a small porcelain cat into an ashtray and flicks her cigarette. Henry settles in beside her, leaning against her shoulder carefully.

 

“I think,” he starts carefully, fiddling with his cigarette. “This was a good idea.”

 

“What was?”

 

“Moving here,” her says.

 

Jane hums.

 

“If we’d stayed, we’d be dealing with the newly minted Professor Umbridge,” she says. “And we’d probably be in danger.”

 

“Probably,” Henry agrees. “You know what else?”

 

“What?”

 

“Ron would never have managed to find a date this early in the school year, either.”

 

Jane snorts.

 

“No, probably not.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Padfoot, _

 

_ Ron went on a date with a Muggle girl the other day, Hermione’s English partner. Considering the fact that he went out for lunch and came home with a haircut and a black eye, I’d say they hit it off quite well (the black eye was from a concert, not her). She’s a bit obnoxious, but she’s kind, and has a love for the records that Ron can’t help but play over and over again (the records, I suspect, having once belonged to you). She takes his lack of knowledge about Muggle things in stride, and is patient with his occasional case of foot-in-mouth. Since their date, he’s gone out with her nearly everyday after she and Hermione have finished their homework, which, rather than doing it at the Muggle’s parents’ house, is done at our kitchen table. I think it’s Hermione’s way of passive aggressively trying to convince Ron and I to take classes, but it isn’t working. Instead, it just gives Ron more time to stare at who I think might be his first real crush— not counting Viktor Krum, of course. _

 

_ But enough about Ron’s love life. I’d ask how you and Buckbeak are, but it seems pointless, considering you can’t answer these letters. I’ll tell you about what I’ve been doing. _

 

_ I’ve taken up smoking, spend a lot of time indoors self-studying (Hermione’s got no idea. I know telling her would stop her harping on about schooling, but then she’d worry about safety, and I don’t want that lecture), I cook, I clean, I listen to records with Ron (and now Jenny), and I drink shit beer. I’ve also been invited to Jenny’s Halloween concert. Have I mentioned she’s in a band? Punk rock. Ron’s really into it, and I don’t mind it myself. Even Hermione’s starting to like it, and she hardly likes anything that isn’t school. _

 

_ Well, I’ll sign off now. I’ve thrown in a few more pictures, because I thought you might like them. Hermione has a talent for taking photographs, it seems. Tell Lupin I said hello. With any luck, I’ll see you soon. _

 

_ Harry _

  
  


This time, there are more photographs. One just of Ron, grinning at the camera with a painful looking bruise around his left eye and a bloody mouth. His hair’s shorter than Sirius expected, spiked up and expertly styled. 

 

Another photo of what Sirius assumes is an average dinner, obviously taken with a covert Levitation spell. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the Sirius assumes is Ron’s new girlfriend are seated around a spaghetti dinner, with Harry caught in the middle of tossing a meatball at Ron.

 

A photograph of Harry, just Harry, grinning stupidly through a cloud of smoke, over-sized army green cardigan hanging off one bare shoulder. He’s changed his glasses.

 

The four of them, all pressed together holding the camera over their heads, grinning brightly at the slightly off-center lens.

 

There are more photographs, of course, all that same, still, Muggle quality, and Sirius tucks each one away with the same care that he showed Harry’s baby pictures.

 

His godson seems happy.

 

That’s enough, for now.


	11. Chapter 11

Daphne should have expected it, really. The twins were clever— everyone knew that. Still, she hadn’t expected them to… corner her like this.

 

“So, Harry’s got a sneaky Slytherin on his payroll, aye, Gred?”

 

“Looks like, Forge.”

 

She steps back, bumping into the bookshelf behind her. They’re in the library, in full view if someone cares to look, and—

 

They step closer.

 

Daphne’s not afraid of the Weasley twins. She knows as well as anyone that they’re nice enough boys, for Gryffindors. They don’t play the sort of games that others might with a girl, the rude, shameful games that usually lead to Daphne hexing them to kingdom come, because it  _ won’t _ happen, not with her, not again—

 

“George? Step back, I think we’re crowding her.”

 

Something must have shown on her face, she thinks, as both twins take two steps back.

 

“Sorry,” one— George, she thinks— says. “But we’ve got to know. Is it you, who’s been passing on their letters?”

 

They don’t ask. How kind of them.

 

“Just confirm it,” Fred says. “We’ve already tested your hair— the locator spell led us right to you.”

 

Daphne sighs.

 

“My Father’s his solicitor,” she says softly. “He’s the one who handled his paperwork to graduate early.”

 

“And to take his friends with him, I suppose,” George muses. “Nobody can find their paperwork, you know— Hermione and Ron? It’s like they’ve been erased.”

 

Daphne doesn’t say anything.

 

“Listen, we don’t want to bring them back or anything—”

 

“We just want to—”

 

“Find them.”

 

“What for?” Daphne winces. She doesn’t speak like that. It must be the stress.

 

“To go with them, of course,” Fred says, as though it were obvious.

 

“Yeah. We reckon they might have the right idea, leaving the country,” George continues. “With this Umbridge business, and Voldemort being back, probably best to just get out while we still can, you know?”

 

She does know. Her father is of the same belief— they’d’ve been out of the country last summer, if not for her schooling and her mother’s need for a proper, Pureblood marriage.

 

“I don’t know where they are,” she says. “I haven’t had much contact with Harry since he left.”

 

“But you can contact him?”

 

Daphne swallows. She nods.

 

“Yes. I can.”

 

Fred reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a letter, stamped with purple wax. He presses it into her hand.

 

“Send this for us, will you?” he asks. His fingers linger. “He’s probably in need of information—”

 

“Information we have,” George finishes. “We figure it’s a fair trade, for now.”

 

“Fair trade for what?”

 

“Information as to his whereabouts,” Fred says. “We want to go too, remember?”

 

Daphne takes a deep breath.

 

“I’ll send it along,” she says. “Alright?”

 

Both boys smile.

 

“Thanks, Greengrass—”

 

“You’re a gem, truly.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“So there’s this place, on Gilman Street,” Ron starts. “Where kids perform.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. It’s pretty great. Everybody just goes and… plays music.” Ron sits back. “Jenny goes all the time. It’s only two dollars to get in.”

 

Henry nods thoughtfully.

 

“Nice to know there’s things for people our age to go to,” he says. “Better than trying to sneak into a twenty-one plus or something.”

 

“Yeah.” Ron leans forward slightly. “A few of Jenny’s friends are playing tonight. Do you wanna come?”

 

Henry smiles slightly. Out of all of them, it’s Ron who’s beginning to lose his accent. Jane keeps hers up purposefully, thrilled by the American fascination and respect she is immediately awarded for it (though she won’t admit it), and Henry… doesn’t go out much.

 

“Who’s playing?” he asks. “Anyone from your records?” Because they’re Ron’s records, now, not the Potters’.

 

Ron shakes his head.

 

“That’s the best part,” he says. “All the bands are new— Henry, there are kids younger than us playing punk! And they’re good at it, too.”

 

Henry shakes his head.

 

“You just want me to get out more,” he says.

 

“Well, yes, but it is actually really cool, and I don’t want to go alone.”

 

“What about Jenny?”

 

“Jane and her are having a girls’ night.” Ron rolls his eyes. “Which reminds me— Jane won’t be home tonight. So, let’s go out. Have a boys’ night, or whatever.”

 

“Get pissed and see a band?”

 

“Well, you can’t get pissed at the show, but afterwards is fair game.” Ron grins. “Maybe we can find you a girl too.”

 

Henry hits him.

 

“Oh, shut up, Ron.”

 

Ron laughs.

 

“Come on, Henry, it’ll be fun.”

 

Henry sighs. Ron’s been trying for weeks, now— ever since he started dating Jenny. He’s worried that Henry’s become a shut in, content to stay inside with his cooking and his books and whatever else Ron thinks he gets up to.

 

“Who’re the bands?” he asks, resigned.

 

Ron brightens.

 

“Well, the one’s called Rancid,” he says. “They’re the ones I wanna see.”

 

“Alright, fine. Let me just…” Henry looks down. He’s not wearing any pants, just the odd, checkered boxers that Jane had picked up the last time she’d done the shopping. “Get dressed.”

 

“Yeah, alright. I’ll just call Tom so he can pick us up.”

 

“Tom?”

 

“He’s in a band called the Mongrels— not much good, be he’s an alright bloke.”

 

Henry nods. “Alright.”

 

“This is gonna be great, Henry— you’ll love it.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Lars, the show was amazing!”

 

“Thanks, man!”

 

Ron gets pulled into a tight hug by a man with bright orange hair done up into long, stiff spikes.

 

“This is Henry, my brother,” he introduces, pulling back and gesturing at Henry.

 

“Hello.”

 

“So you’re the brother,” Lars says, grinning. “Nice to meet you, man. Hey, Weasel, I gotta go talk to Mike about some sound shit. Catch up with you later?”

 

“Yeah, man, of course.”

 

Lars disappears into the crowd again, and Henry turns to Ron.

 

“Weasel?”

 

Ron grins sheepishly.

 

“I messed up introducing myself,” he explains. “Started saying Weasley. So, they call me Weasel.”

 

“And you don’t mind?”

 

“Not from them, no.” Ron shrugs. “It’s all for a laugh, around here.”

 

Henry hums.

 

“That’s good,” he says. “That’s really good, Ron.”

 

“Yeah. Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

 

“Sure.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Think the boys are alright?”

 

“They’re fine, Janey, don’t worry.” Jenny ties off another braid “And… you’re done. What do you think?”

 

Jane looks into the mirror. Jenny’s braiding technique is excellent— Jane’s normally poof of hair has been pulled down in to neat, long braids.

 

“It… wow.”

 

“What, have you never gotten your hair done before?”

 

Jane shakes her head.

 

“My parents weren’t prepared to deal with natural hair,” she says, and it’s true. The Grangers never knew what to do. “I was a complete mess until I started to take care of it myself.”

 

“That’s shitty. Didn’t they know what they were getting into, with a black kid?”

 

Jane smiles thinly.

 

“Evidently not.”

 

Jenny rolls her eyes.

 

“Well, we’ll catch you up,” she says, smacking her shoulders lightly. “There’s a lot to learn, and my Mom owns the salon down the street. We can start going there on the regular, okay?”

 

“That… sounds nice.”

 

“It’ll be fun! I’ve gotta go soon, anyway— this blonde’s growing out.” Jenny leans forward, patting at her hair as she stares into the mirror. “I’m thinking… blue.”

 

Jane laughs.

 

“This was a good idea,” she says.

 

“Course it was, it was mine!” Jenny smiles at her. “Come on. I have pizza and Blockbuster.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ To Our Dearest, Darling Harry, _

 

_ Not many people have both the guts to go when the going’s good and leave Dumbledore without a clue. Good on you. We’re so proud. _

 

_ The Order’s in bits. The bunch that work in the Ministry (Dad and a few others) are guarding some kind of weapon, also in the Ministry. Another bunch are out looking for you. Snape’s actually taken a sabbatical, just so he can track your sorry, Gryffindor arse down. The rest of them are doing something top secret— they’re looking for something called a Horcrux. _

 

_ We can’t find much about Horcruxes, other than the fact that they’re some sort of soul magic, but apparently, Voldemort’s using them, and so they’ve got Lupin on the job to find the bloody things. How do we know this, you might ask. Well, apparently, Muggle technology can be used just fine around magic, so long as their isn’t any electricity running through them. We’ve got ears on the whole meeting room, thanks to a clever little Muggle contraption called a bug. _

 

_ Great, isn’t it? _

 

_ Anyway, we’ve sent this letter for two reasons— one, to congratulate you, and two, to ask when we’re allowed to come visit. Britain’s getting a little hot, if you know what we mean. _

 

_ Cheers, _

_ Gred and Forge _


	12. Chapter 12

Luna Lovegood is called Loony for a reason. The girl’s completely mad.

 

Draco noticed her, peripherally, sometime in his third year, mostly because of her hair. It was a lovely color, a loose curtain of white blonde falling just past her elbows. She was pretty, and Draco was thirteen. It happens.

 

She was also the butt of a lot of jokes, among older Ravenclaws and Slytherins, easily poked and prodded due to ridiculous beliefs and a father just as cracked as she was. The man owned the  _ Quibbler _ , for Merlin’s sake— what sort of a man thinks it’s acceptable to publish that sort of rubbish?

 

So he laughed along when she was caught in a prank or was tripped in the hallways. He called her Loony, just like everybody else. Outside of that, he paid her no mind.

 

Then, Potter disappeared.

 

Draco doesn’t know why he’s so affected by the disappearance of that Gryffindor prat. He should be pleased. That boy’s family is responsible for the death of the Dark Lord, for the humiliation of his father, for…  _ everything _ .

 

And yet, Draco feels so empty.

 

He knows he’s gotten quiet since the news broke. His Mother thinks he’s growing up, maturing, and Draco would love to believe her, but the fact is, he’s lost his favorite sparring partner. He has no one to fight, anymore.

 

He spends a lot of time wandering. Due to his prefect status, he has full run of the corridors after hours, and he uses his time well.

 

Well. He gets to know Hogwarts. That’s sort of the same thing.

 

His favorite place to go at night is the Astronomy Tower. With its spelled, open air design, he can watch the night sky without freezing to death. It’s quite lovely— a good place to be alone.

 

Except, sometime in mid-October, he climbs the spiral staircase to find… someone else.

 

“It’s past curfew,” he says, stepping into the moonlight. “You’re out of bounds, brat.”

 

The student doesn’t answer. Draco hears a muffled sniffle.

 

“What are you crying for?” he demands, striding forward. “Come on, what?”

 

His fingers wrap around a slender arm, tugging rudely until he can see the student’s face.

 

He freezes when giant, silvery blue eyes meet his.

 

“Lovegood?”

 

She sniffles again, but doesn’t pull away, wiping at her wet cheeks awkwardly.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Draco asks, frowning. “Why are you wearing that hood?”

 

Lovegood tries to smile.

 

“Just another joke,” she says. “Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

 

“I’m not  _ worried _ ,” he corrects. “You’re out after curfew, and I’d like to know why. Remove your hood.”

 

Lovegood hesitates. His frown deepens.

 

“I said, remove your hood.”

 

Sniffing, Lovegood obeys, pulling back the fabric to reveal—

 

“Your  _ hair _ .”

 

Her lower lip trembles as Draco releases her arm, running his hand through the close-cropped locks to assess the damage.

 

“What happened?”

 

“They charmed some scissors,” she says softly. “Right before I left the common room.”

 

She’s lucky they didn’t put an eye out, then, he thinks, tilting her head into the light. Upon closer look, he sees cuts around her ears and neck.

 

He draws his wand.

 

“Hold still,” he instructs. She goes stiff, eyes pinching shut.

 

He mutters a quiet spell, smirking slightly when the cuts give way to healthy, unmarred skin. He’s been working on this particular spell for a while— it’s good to see he’s improved.

 

Lovegood gasps slightly when he pulls his wand away, reaching up to rub at the healed marks.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers.

 

“Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t finished,” he says, waving his wand again. A moment later, her chopped, uneven hair shifts, lengthening rapidly until it flows down her back once more. He ends the spell, reaching out to run his hands through his work.

 

“Better?” he asks, ignoring the way her hands shake when she reaches up to pat her head.

 

“Better,” she croaks. “Thank you.”

 

“Good. Now, come on. It’s nearly midnight.” Reflexively, he holds out an arm— his etiquette tutor always insisted on the action when escorting a lady. She seems surprised by the action, but when he doesn’t withdraw, she answers.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

 

“Don’t get any ideas,” he feels the need to say. “You’re still mad as all hell. You looked pathetic, is all.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Their walk to the Ravenclaw Tower is quiet, after that, which suits Draco just fine. He doesn’t know why, but he feels odd, with this girl clutching his arm— sort of warm, sort of nervous. There’s no reason to be nervous. She won’t attack him or anything, after all.

 

Lovegood lets go when they reach the Ravenclaw Tower, offering him a perfect, socialite’s curtsy.

 

“Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, odd eyes cast downward. “Thank you for your assistance.”

 

He flounders for a moment at the display.

 

“Of course, Miss Lovegood,” he says, nodding sharply. “Have a good evening.”

 

With that, he turns on his heel and makes his escape. That Lovegood’s a clever one— she forced him to be polite by drawing on Pureblood courtesies, surprising him enough that he’d forgotten to take points off for her rule breaking. Well, fine. He can appreciate that sort of cunning. He just can’t allow it to happen again.

 

The next time he sees Lovegood, he won’t be soft.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Nice digs, man. You own this place?” Tom asks when Henry opens the door. Upon realizing that Tom didn’t have anywhere to stay that night, Henry had offered up their couch. That led to the rest of his band to join in, citing him as their ride.

 

“I do, yeah,” Henry says, tossing his keys on the counter.

 

“How do you pay for it, man? It looks good.” Tom sounds like he’s in awe. “Running water and everything.”

 

“My parents left an inheritance,” Henry explains. “And the house. So we live here now.”

 

“Just the two of you?”

 

“And Janey, too, you remember her?” Ron says, tossing his jacket. “Beer?”

 

“Yeah, man, sure!”

 

“Hey Cardy, why haven’t you been at any shows?” asks the drummer— Joey, if Henry remembers correctly. It takes a moment for him to realize who the boy was addressing.

 

“Err, I don’t go out much.” He takes the beer Ron offers him and cracks it open.

 

“Dude, you totally should,” says the bassist, pushing blue hair back to reveal her lazy eye. “You seem weird, you’d fit right in.”

 

“... Thanks, I think.”

 

“Jenny says you’ve got an original pressing of Raw Power, Weasel,” Dirk says. He’s on something, Henry’s sure. He won’t stop twitching. “Can we hear it, man?”

 

“Sure— have a seat, put up your feet. It was a hard night, right?” Ron grins and heads over to the record player.

 

Henry collapses into his usual seat, the rest following suit. Immediately chatter starts.

 

“So did you see—”

 

“That fucker’s trying to get with Joaney, I know it—”

 

“—  _ Nothing _ compared to Pink Rocket—”

 

“So, Cardy, what’re you into?” asks the girl— Rocky, he thinks they call her. He’s met a lot of people today.

 

“I… a bit of everything, really. I’m still… finding my feet.” He smiles awkwardly. “We were all a bit isolated, growing up.”

 

Rocky nods sympathetically.

 

“My mom was in a cult,” she offers. “I get that. Punk rock is a great place to figure yourself out. People are really accepting— unless you’re like, a nazi or something, but nazi punks can fuck right off, you don’t have to hang with them. Can I ask— how old are you?”

 

“I turned fifteen at the end of July.”

 

“Fifteen? Damn, you’re like a baby.” She grins. “It’s cool, though— we’re all young. Can you play any instruments?”

 

“No.”

 

“Sing?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never tried.”

 

“Hey, leave Cardy alone, Rock! Look at him, you’re making him nervous.” Tom grins at them over his beer. “So Cardy, what’cha think of Gilman?”

 

Henry smiles.

 

“It was wicked,” he says. “I’ve never been to anything like that.”

 

“I’ve been trying to drag him out for a while, but he’s stubborn,” Ron says. “Likes to stay locked up with his books, you know.”

 

“Don’t tell Jane,” Henry murmurs, and they all laugh.

 

“Goddamn, this record sounds good,” Dirk says suddenly, leaning over the arm of the couch. “Fan- _ fucking _ -tastic!”

 

“Yeah, Iggy’s great,” Ron agrees. “Bit of a nutter, but really great—”

 

The conversation dissolves into music talk. It surprises Henry when he realizes he can keep up with most of it, thanks to Ron, and three, six, ten beers later, he’s pulled up by the arm to dance.

 

“ _ I am the world’s forgotten boy _ — come on, Cardy, you know the words—  _ the one who searches to destroy! _ ” Tom’s dragging him along in bouncing circles, half-singing, half-screaming the lyrics at the top of his lungs. He’s right, Henry does know the words, and he’s drunk enough to try.

 

“ _ Honey gotta help me, please, somebody try to save my soul! _ ” Henry’s laughing, face pained with the force of his grin. “ _ Baby detonate for me— _ ”

 

Ron’s getting more beer on his shirt than in his mouth. Rocky is half-dressed thanks to a minor case of vomiting. Henry hasn’t felt this light since he found out he was a wizard.

  
This is a good night.


	13. Chapter 13

Henry wakes up with his head pounding and Rocky’s head pillowed against his shoulder.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers a hand over his eyes. The room is too bright, and Jane is too loud.

 

“I brought groceries, but—” Jane stops in the living room entrance, assessing the damage. “I didn’t know you had company.”

 

“Hey, Janey.” Tom gives her a half-hearted wave, other hand pressed over his eyes. “You look great.”

 

“Thanks, Tom.” Jane sets down her purchases on the counter, tossing her new braids over one shoulder. “You all need water, and something to eat. That’s what you’re supposed to do after you get roaring drunk, right?”

 

“Janey knows what’s up,” Rocky mumbles into Henry’s shoulder. “Fuck, what time is it?”

 

“Er…” Henry glances at the grandfather clock. “Eleven?”

 

“Aw, hell.” Rocky shifts closer. “It’s too early.”

 

Ron’s still asleep, face down on the floor with Joey sprawled across his back. Jane kicks him awake as she passes on her way to the record player, powering it down with a jab of her unusually bright nails.

 

“Gryffindor to the core,” Henry murmurs, grinning.

 

“What?”

 

“Your nails. Gryffindor red and gold.”

 

“I— yeah. Jenny did them for me.”

 

“What’s Gryffindor?” Rocky asks, looking up.

 

“Er, boarding school thing.”

 

Jane rolls her eyes.

 

“To keep control of the kids, they get separated into Houses, with sports teams and point systems and things,” she explains. “Ours was Gryffindor.”

 

“The brave at heart,” Henry adds.

 

“Cool.” Rocky gives up on trying to sleep and stretches, with a comfortable groan. “Well, if I’m awake, I guess that means I should go to work. Tom, can you drive me?”

 

“I guess, yeah.” Tom pushes himself to his feet, following Jane’s example and delivering a swift kick to Joey’s side. “Get up, fag, we’re heading out!”

 

“Huh? Wha—” Joey sits up. “Jesus fuck, my head.”

 

“Jesus already tried, remember?” Tom winks at Henry. “He served six months on a distribution charge.”

 

Henry nods like he understands.

 

“Nice having you guys,” he says as Ron rolls over onto his back. “We should do this again sometime.”

 

“Same, man— hey, stop by Gilman soon, understand? We’re always hanging around.” Tom reaches out to shake Henry’s hand. “You seem like a cool guy, Cardy.”

 

“You too, Tom.”

 

The punks shuffle out after that, leaving Henry, Ron, and Jane alone.

 

“Looks like we’ve all had an interesting night,” Jane remarks. “Did you have a good time at Gilman, Henry?”

 

“It was fun.”

 

“Then the headache’s worth it,” she says. “Come on. Up you two get.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“The twins contacted me,” Henry remarks over breakfast. “Looks like they figured out my situation with Greengrass.”

 

Jane puts downs her fork.

 

“What did they want?”

 

“To come with us.” Henry shrugs. “I’d be fine with it, I think.”

 

Ron swallows his mouthful.

 

“Best not to quite yet,” Ron says after a moment. “If they both disappear so soon after me, Mum’ll have a heart attack.”

 

“And we’ll need warding before the house can handle any of their experiments,” Jane adds. “We do share a wall with Muggles, you know.”

 

“And we’ve got a Muggle coming through the house quite regularly,” Henry agrees. “We’ll need rules, before they come.”

 

“We’ll need rules before Sirius and Lupin get here, honestly.” Jane fiddles absently with a braid. “Sirius isn’t exactly… acclimated, you know, to society at large…”

 

“And Lupin’s furry little problem isn’t going away anytime soon.” Henry sighs. “I have a feeling we’re going to need a bigger house soon.”

 

“With potentially four more people? We’ll probably need another floor.” Ron frowns. “Could we do that?”

 

“With Expansion Charms and a few wards, probably,” Jane says. “I’ll look into it.”

 

Henry nods sharply, a pensive look on his face.

 

“So, we’ve got four more coming in,” he says. “Possibly more, do you think?”

 

Ron shrugs.

 

“Ginny might want to come, if she figures it out,” he says. “What with you being here…” he trails off. “You know she’s still got a crush, right?”

 

“Yeah. She’s not really my type.”

 

“I figured.” Ron hums. “Beyond that… I don’t know, maybe Neville? He seems like somebody who’d run if it meant getting away from his grandmother.”

 

They all wince. They’ve heard the stories about Augusta Longbottom.

 

“Maybe another two floors,” Henry says. “Just in case.”

 

“In case of what?”

 

Jane rolls her eyes, gathering her plate and setting it next to the sink.

 

“Henry’s thinking about starting a boarding house,” she says, shouldering her bag. “For wayward Magicals. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

 

He smiles absently.

 

“Hit the nail on the head, Jane, as per usual.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ My Future Client, _

 

_ Professor Umbridge is a beast. She’s using Blood Quills as punishment in her detentions! If you don’t know what they are, look them up. It’s absolutely vile. _

 

_ Fred and George Weasley have taken to accosting me during my study sessions in the library. They’re quite clever, for Gryffindors, and have narrowed down your location to America. Their attentions, of course, have gotten the attention of their sister, who just so happens to be in the same Potions class as my sister, Astoria. They’ve become quite friendly, recently, which gives me hope, though I can’t quite say why. _

 

_ My mother, as usual, is pestering me to make a decision and choose a viable suitor for a girl of my status— namely, a Pureblood. Something seems different this time, however, and while it is likely no cause for concern, my father has warned me to hasten my decision, which is very unlike him. Any theories? _

 

_ Rumor has it that Draco Malfoy has been spotted on at least three different occasions conversing with the infamous Loony Lovegood. If you don’t know her, she’s a year below us, and a Ravenclaw. Her father owns the publication The Quibbler, a tabloid that publishes everything from the outrageous to the nonsensical. Miss Lovegood is said to be mad, and is often horrendously bullied, even by members of her own House— so you can understand the curiosity surrounding Draco’s recent liaisons with the girl. Something about him has changed, since you left. I imagine he’s lonely, without someone to prod into a fight. Be that as it may, the change appears to be a good one, though it has put off many of the other Slytherin students. There is yet to be a person brave enough to ask about Miss Lovegood, not even Blaise Zabini— and they’re quite good friends. _

 

_ Dumbledore spends very little time on school grounds, nowadays. It is assumed by the more knowledgeable of us that he is working to prove the Dark Lord’s return is in fact true, but that remains to be seen. _

 

_ Well, now that I’ve gotten you up to date, I suppose I’ll post your letters to my father to be handled and post this to you. I hope you have a lovely Halloween. _

 

_ Your Future Solicitor, _

_ Daphne _

 

_ P.S. _

_ Fred and George say hello, and they’ll be in contact soon. _

  
  


—

  
  


_ Padfoot, _

 

_ I just got back from an appointment with the American branch of Gringotts. Hermione’s wanted a tutor for her Magical studies, so I got a list of potentials in the area for her to choose from. _

 

_ I went to a concert the other day with Ron, a punk concert. Jenny and Hermione had a girls’ night, so we figured we may as well. His new Muggle friends are great, and he’s spending so much time with them that he’s starting to lose his accent. It’s quite funny, actually— you’ll appreciate the laugh when you get here. _

 

_ I heard from a friend that Lupin’s got a mission of some sort for the Order. Does that mean he isn’t coming when you inevitably join our merry band of misfits? _

 

_ I’ve added two floors to the house, for when you come. Not just you, obviously. We’ve made space for the twins as well, and maybe Ginny, once she figures out where we are. It’s quite comfortable. I spelled it myself. _

 

_ With preparations done, I figure I may as well say I’d like to see you at Christmas. I looked into MACUSA law while I was at Gringotts, and you’d be considered a refugee under their immigration guidelines, since you were a political prisoner and all. There’s also a program available to werewolves for work and things. It provides free Wolfsbane and points them in the direction of werewolf-friendly business. Isn’t America great? You should tell Lupin. _

 

_ Anyway, I’ll sign off now. Ron’s taking us all to some party his friend Tom’s throwing, and he’s complaining that we’ll be late. _

 

_ I hope you’re doing well. _

 

_ -Harry _


	14. Chapter 14

Luna Lovegood’s an odd girl, but charming enough, if you’re willing to listen to her chatter about imaginary creatures all the time. Draco realizes this sometime during their fourth accidental meeting, this time in the Forest.

 

Apparently, she likes to feed the Thestrals right around the time that he likes to take his morning walk.

 

He doesn’t stop her talking when he realizes this, nor does he try and excuse himself and save himself any potential embarrassment. Instead, he keeps on listening, because her interest in Blibbering Humdingers or whatever it is she’s talking about is so blessedly different from his usual conversation that it’s actually quite soothing.

 

There are no expectations with Loony.

 

“Want to feed Horatio?” she asks, jarring him out of his thoughts. Her hands are stained from the raw red meat she’d been holding out into the empty air to be devoured.

 

“I can’t see them,” he says, because he can’t, and why would he want to feed meat-eating horses anyway?

 

She hums thoughtfully.

 

“That will change, soon,” she says, a somber note in her dreamy voice. “People will start dying all over, and we’re all going to see. You may as well make friends with the Thestrals now.”

 

Draco swallows, but gets to his feet anyway, holding out his hand for her to guide.

 

The meat is magically warmed and uncomfortably wet in his hand, but nothing is so strange as the cold tongue and sharp teeth he feels delicately brush against his fingers as what he assumes is Horatio begins to eat.

 

“Who’d you see die?” he hears himself ask, trying to distract himself from the sudden feeling of dread forming in his stomach.

 

“My mother,” she admits. “She was a brilliant witch, but she liked to experiment with potions. I was nine.”

 

Her hand is small and cold around his wrist. Her toes are bare, curling into the dried leaves underfoot. Her hair is long and loose, shifting lazily against the cool autumn breeze.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I’ve always thought that a strange thing to say,” she admits. “You didn’t kill her, after all.”

 

She’s very close, close enough that he can see the goosebumps pricking up on her bared skin in response to the cold, can see the way her odd vegetable earrings pull down on her earlobes and brush against her shoulder—

 

He kisses her, dropping the meat and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She’s cold and small in his hands, her shirt thin against the misty morning.

 

When he pulls away, her silvery eyes are wide and surprised, her mouth slightly red.

 

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, I quite liked that. Do it again?”

 

And Draco should say no, he should step back and walk away. Lovegood’s a Pureblood, yes, but not nearly of the same calibre as what Draco should be interested in. Is interested in.

 

“Draco, please.”

 

His name on her tongue is what does it, because she never uses his name. He’s always Mister Malfoy, to her.

 

She tastes like strawberries and the bacon from breakfast, but he can’t imagine he’s much better. Her hands find their way under his cloak, into the warmth of wool and fur.

 

She pulls away this time, and he can’t— he can’t—

 

“Luna,” he says, helpless.

 

Luna smiles, and it’s such a pretty smile, Merlin, she’s so pretty—

 

“You didn’t call me ‘Loony’,” she says, and Draco can’t help it; he laughs.

 

“Doesn’t really suit you,” he admits. “You’re odd, yes, but… not mad.”

 

He’d know, after all— his Aunt Bella is… an experience.

 

“People will talk, you know, if they… if you…” Luna trails off, silvery eyes dimming. “Oh. This is improper for someone of your station.”

 

Draco stiffens in her grasp. She’s right, of course. He’s meant to marry a Pureblood girl of proper social standing, and Luna— while Pureblood— is not someone he ought to be associating with.

 

“You’re right,” he agrees, stepping back. “I apologize, Miss Lovegood.”

 

She doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond his elbow.

 

“As do I, Mister Malfoy,” she says. “It would be best if you leave, I think. I have to finish feeding the Thestrals. They promised to lead me to a Heliopath’s trail, you know. I have to thank them somehow.”

 

Draco nods again, oddly numb with the cross of regret and self-disgust coursing through his veins already. He shouldn’t have kissed Luna— Lovegood, she is Miss Lovegood— even if she isn’t mad. After all, she’s not like him. She’s not— she’s not—

 

He wants to stay, but he doesn’t. He turns away with only a curt nod of goodbye, and he leaves her there, barefoot in the Forest, with her Therstrals and her Heliopaths (whatever those are), shivering slightly from the cold autumn air.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“What are you guys doing for Halloween?” Jenny asks on the twenty-ninth of October. She’s tucked into the crook of Ron’s arm, feet curled up under a heavy blanket conjured out of sight in the next room, eyes half-closed, so she doesn’t catch the uneasy glances shared between them.

 

“We don’t really… we’ve had bad luck, the last few Halloweens,” Jane says carefully, peering over the edge of her Chemistry book. “We weren’t going to do much of anything.”

 

Jenny huffs.

 

“That’s boring,” she says. “What, you’re just going to sit inside on the best night of the year?”

 

“Well…”

 

Jenny sits up.

 

“Nope. Not happening,” she says. “There’s a costume party over at Spaz’s, he won’t mind the extra company.”

 

“Jen, that’s very nice of you, but—”

 

“No, no talking me out of it, because you won’t. It’s a couple of bands, costumes, candy, and booze. Everything a teenager could want.” She glances at the grandfather clock and curses.

 

“I need to go,” she says, getting to her feet. “Mom wants me home to babysit. But seriously— find some costumes. Your Saturday night’s gonna be taken up by a party like you wouldn’t believe, alright?”

 

Ron moves instinctively to accept the peck she gives him, handing over her purse as she straightens again.

 

“Saturday,” she says again. “Don’t forget.”

 

And with that, she pulls on her jacket, shoulders her purse, and slips out the door.

 

“Costumes?” Ron asks once the screen door bangs shut behind her.

 

“A Muggle tradition.” Jane sighs. “Well, I suppose that’s that sorted, then. We need to go shopping.”

 

“What for?” Henry says, ashing his cigarette with an absent flick. “We’ve already got costumes.”

 

“Our robes?” Jane hums thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose, but I don’t fancy the idea of beer and vomit clinging to the hems.”

 

Ron makes a face.

 

“Where do you buy costumes, then?” he asks. “Is there a shop for that?”

 

“Probably,” Jane says. “Americans love Halloween— it’s all they talk about at school.”

 

“Alright then, I suppose we know what we’re doing today,” Henry says, glancing at his watch. “Shops don’t close ‘til eight, after all.”

 

Jane nods, setting her book aside.

 

“Alright,” she says, getting to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Remus!”

 

The man is thinner than usual in Sirius’ arms when he pulls him into a welcoming hug, but he returns the gesture just as desperately before pulling away.

 

“You look well,” he says, a tired smile on his face.

 

“And you look run ragged,” Sirius says. “Come on, a little Firewhisky will fix you right up.”

 

He leads Remus upstairs, up to Walburga’s room. Buckbeak likes the company, after all, and his presence guarantees that no one will interrupt.

 

“Harry’s contacted me again,” he starts once he’s poured them two generous glasses. “He says he’d like us over for Christmas, if possible.”

 

Remus sips his drink, oblivious to the slight smoking of his mustache when it touches the whisky.

 

“Is it possible?” he asks, setting down his glass.

 

“Yes,” Sirius says. “I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. The only question is how dedicated you are to Dumbledore’s mission.”

 

“Not especially,” Remus admits. “He is unwilling to give the necessary details to accomplish the tasks set for me— of course, that’s no different than usual, but… this is a mite more dangerous than average.”

 

“More dangerous means more important, usually.”

 

“Usually, yes.” Remus sighs. “I’ve been looking into law, you know. The law over there. Regulations treat my affliction as… an illness.”

 

“It is.”

 

“Yes, but you don’t understand. My kind are not listed as Dark creatures under MACUSA law— something to do with a movement in the seventies.”

 

“That’s good.” Sirius grins. “You know, Harry told me that I’d be considered a refugee, once I get there. No one in Wizarding Britain can touch me.”

 

“That’s something.” Remus sits back, swirling the whisky in his cup. “I think… I think perhaps we ought to go.”

 

“Of course we ought.” Sirius makes a face. “Magical Britain’s been eating itself alive since before we were born. I don’t think it’s wise to remain through the grand finale, whatever the outcome.”

 

“You have a point. Relocation it is, then.” He holds up his glass. “To Harry, the first of us to act on his good sense.”

 

“Cheers.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“You should be Superman, Henry.”

 

“I dunno. Batman seems better.” Henry holds up a cheap plastic mask over his glasses. “Rich crime-fighter with a mad archnemesis. What do you think?”

 

Jane rolls her eyes.

 

“Pretentious— besides, you’re not crime-fighting anymore,” she says, holding up a Wonder Woman skirt. “How about this for me?”

 

“Nah. Too spangly for a Brit.”

 

“Why are we going for superheroes, anyway?” Ron says, voice muffled by the changing room door. “I don’t know jack about them. Why can’t we be Star Trek characters?”

 

“That wouldn’t be hard,” Henry remarks. “I could shave my head and play Picard.”

 

“Of course not. For one, you’d look terrible, and for another, you’re definitely Kirk.” Jane clicks her tongue. “Wait a second, I think I saw something in the other aisle…” She scurries off as Ron opens the door, leaving a pile of costumes on the bench in the changing room.

 

“Thanks,” Henry mutters as he watches her pigtails weave between the aisles. “I don’t know much about superheroes, either.”

 

“Anything, mate.”

 

“Found it!” Jane waves a handful of plastic-wrapped shirts in the air over her head. “Operation: The Original Series is a go!”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Halloween in the Muggle world is vastly different from what Henry remembers. For one, there’s a lot more booze. For another, he doesn’t recall ever having walked in on so many people having sex in his life— and he lived in the Gryffindor Tower.

 

It’s alright, though— besides the visceral knowledge that Ron isn’t a virgin and that Jen actually has really nice tits, of course. There’s a lot of chocolate, and a boy with bright green hair and a poor approximation of the Joker’s violet suit gives him a lap dance when Henry loosens up enough to accept the attention. He also gets a kiss from the experience, which he only remembers when he stumbles into the bathroom the next morning to see red and white makeup smeared across his face in his reflection.

  
All in all? Best Halloween he’s ever had.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s Ron’s fault, of course.

 

Of course it’s Ron’s fault. It’s Ron who got involved with a Muggle girl, Ron who made her familiar to them beyond Janey’s English partner. It’s Ron who made her a friend to them, who made her a regular fixture in their decidedly Magical house.

 

It’s Ron who unthinkingly summons himself another beer after already having one too many.

 

“What the hell—” Jenny sits up when the fridge bangs open, then has to duck when the beer flies over her head to land neatly in Ron’s palm. Or it would have, if the sudden comprehension dawning on his face didn’t make his hands go slack and let the beer bottle shatter on the floor.

 

“Oh— oh, God, Jenny, I—”

 

He looks her, and— and—

 

Her eyes are big when she looks at him, her dark skin ashy as the blood drains out of it.

 

“What the fuck was that?” she whispers. “What the— what the fuck was that, Ron?”

 

“I—” he realizes his wand is still in his hand. He hides it behind his back. “What was what, Jen?”

 

“Don’t you— are you seriously trying to bullshit me, Ron?”

 

“I—”

 

“You said some gibberish word and all of a sudden a beer came flying out of the refrigerator!” She screeches. “What the fuck was that? You think you’re Q or something?”

 

“I—”

 

“What. The fuck. Was that?”

 

Unnecessary punctuation. She means business.

 

“I… now, I know this sounds a bit… a bit weird, but…” Ron takes a deep breath. “I’mawizard.”

 

“Repeat that so I can understand you.”

 

Ron winces.

 

“I’m a… wizard,” he says again. “I can… that was magic. I did magic.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

Ron huffs a weak laugh.

 

“I’m not, I swear.”

 

“Prove it.” There’s something wild in her eyes when she looks at him, her lip trembling uncertainly.

 

“What?”

 

“I said,  _ prove it.” _

 

Ron moves mechanically. His brain’s not really working when he points his wand at the coffee table, when he turns it into a giant tortoise (still with an oak finish on his shell, he’s gotten a little rusty) and back.

 

“I’m not as good as I probably ought to be,” he offers weakly. “I didn’t finish school— don’t really plan on it, either, but… no one’s supposed to know, Jenny. Please don’t tell anyone?”

 

He tries to step closer, but she backs away.

 

“Don’t—” she shakes her head. “Don’t come near me. You— you—”

 

A sob cuts off her words, and she bolts out of the house, storm door slamming behind her.

 

Ron runs a hand through his hair. That pleasant feeling he had, from the beer? Gone.

 

“Shit,” he whispers. “Fuck!”

 

“What happened?” Henry asks from the steps. He’s only in his boxers— probably only just woke up. “You fight with Jenny?”

 

Ron sighs.

 

“Something like that.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Darling Daphne—”

 

“Would you accompany us—”

 

“On this beautiful day—”

 

“For a walk along the edge of the forest?”

 

Daphne, to her credit, is not startled by the sudden appearance of the twins. They’ve pulled the trick often enough on her by now that the only response they get is a sharp look.

 

“I will not.”

 

“Oh, so cold, Gred.”

 

“Like ice, Forge.”

 

Daphne closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

 

“I don’t have time for you two right now,” she says. “Leave me be,  _ please—”  _ Her voice cracks on the last word and she looks down, squeezing her eyes shut against the surge of tears. “Shit.”

 

“Daphne?”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Just fine,” she forces out. “Just fine.”

 

There’s a pause, and then, the boys sit on either side of her, bookending her in the little alcove.

 

“What’s happened?” George asks gently, leaning his head close so no one can hear. “What’s wrong?”

 

Daphne huffs a wet laugh.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says. “It’s the opposite of wrong— it’s good news, in fact, if my Mother’s words are to be believed.”

 

“What’s happened, Daphne?” Fred’s hand is a gentle warmth on her shoulder, comforting and— oh, God, she’s being comforted by Weasleys. Her reputation will never recover.

 

“My mother has chosen a suitor for me,” she says, because nothing can really make this worse. “He is older, and a known Death Eater.”

 

“Who, Daphne?”

 

“Rabastan Lestrange.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“How’s that supposed to work, then?” George asks. “He’s in Azkaban, for Merlin’s sake!”

 

“My mother—” she pauses, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. “My mother says that it will not be a problem for long. There is a marriage bed allowance, one that will put him in a position to ensure an heir despite his incarceration.”

 

There’s a long pause.

 

“That’s… disgusting,” George finally says. “You’re fifteen.”

 

“Your family is too far removed from true Pureblood society,” she says hollowly. “This is completely normal. I’m to be the wife of a madman.”

 

“When?” Fred demands. Grimness doesn’t suit his face. It makes him look old. “When is it happening?”

 

“Mother says I will be married before I take my OWLs. Rabastan will be a good husband, she says. He won’t put up with any of my  _ new age nonsense.” _ Daphne swallows. “I’ll never be able to practice law.”

 

“Unless there’s a way out of it,” Fred says sharply.

 

“There is no way out!” Daphne cries. “Unless I manage to pull another suitor out of my arse, this is it!”

 

“Well, why not one of us?”

 

Daphne freezes.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, me,” Fred corrects, pushing himself to his feet. “George is gayer than a treeful of monkeys, but… yeah. I mean, why not? I’m funny, dashingly handsome, Pureblood… and not a crazy Pureblood.” He smiles in what he probably imagines is a confident, charming way— but Daphne can see the nerves.

 

“You— in what universe would that work?” Daphne demands. “You’re a bloodtraitor, and you’ve got no money, and— you’re a Weasley, for fuck’s sake!”

 

“I’ve heard you curse twice in the last three minutes,” George remarks. “Hardly proper Pureblood heiress behavior. You’d fit right in.”

 

She slaps him.

 

“George, shut it.” Fred kneels in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Listen, it’s not ideal, but— think about it. If we get married, you’re still a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. You can still do your work with Harry, you can do whatever you like— it’s not like I want to stop you.

 

“Everything’ll work, semantics aside, and you won’t ever have to fuck a Death Eater twice your age.”

 

“Plus, we are going to have money soon,” George adds quietly from his place beside her. “On our own, we’ve already got a lot, and if the business keeps doing as well as it is—”

 

“You aren’t going to die a pauper’s wife,” Fred says resolutely. “Or in Azkaban. That much, I promise you.”

 

Daphne sniffles. Her face is wet, her makeup is probably ruined, and they’re sitting in a public bloody corridor. This is possibly the most embarrassing thing she’s ever done in her life.

 

Fred pulls a hand away, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a hot pink handkerchief patterned in garish yellow sunflowers. Carefully, he pushes the handkerchief into her hands.

 

She can’t help herself— she snorts.

 

“Of course,” she murmurs, taking a moment to appreciate the true hideousness of the fabric before wiping at her face. “Of course. Fine! Fine. It’s not like I have any better ideas.”

 

“Great!” Fred grins. “Should I write your father now, or should we just send him the marriage certificate to put on file?”

 

Daphne laughs.

 

“Oh, hell,” she says, sitting back. “He’ll think it all so clever, such an easy way to piss on everything my mother’s ever held dear. He’ll want to officiate.”

  
“I like the man already.”


	16. Chapter 16

_ My Future Client, _

 

_ I am to be married in secret during Christmas break. It is sudden, I know, but my Mother was a signature away from being promised to Rabastan Lestrange, a rabid shell of a man who has spent the last fifteen years enjoying the Spartan comforts afforded to a guest of Azkaban. He will be turning thirty-eight this year, and I must admit, it is a relief to know that through the machinations of two of your allies, I will not be forced to act as a bitch for the Lestrange family. _

 

_ Would you like to know who I am marrying in Rabastan’s stead? It’s Fred Weasley. Strange, isn’t it? My father was unsure of the match, of course, but Fred met him in Hogsmeade to formally ask for my hand last week, and from what I can tell, he made a good impression. My father delights in the thought of my mother’s rage when the legal aspects are finalized, if only because my mother’s increased concern for my apparent hopelessness as an heiress had her change her requirements for my future husband to simply ‘Pureblood’, which, as you know, Fred is. The fact that his family is nearly penniless, that they are bloodtraitors? She can do nothing. The magic that binds me to her demands is full of loopholes, and my father is a solicitor. _

 

_ I don’t think he realizes, but Fred has done me a greater kindness than he would believe. He’s the one to put forth the idea, after all. He is the one who sacrifices a perfectly happy life with whomever he chooses for me. That sort of selflessness is foreign to me. _

 

_ My father likes him. They met last week in Hogsmeade, so Fred could formally ask for my hand. They went over Fred’s plans with George and the shop, along with a few other things, and I think he may be in slight awe of the twins’ brilliance. I suppose he ought to be— not many people have quite the ambition that those two do. They should have been in Slytherin. _

 

_ Anyway, I just thought you ought to hear the news. It seems your solicitor will be known as Daphne Weasley, esq., as opposed to some other, more prestigious name. Who knows, though— when the twins open their shop, they might outpace Zonko’s. _

 

_ Your Future Solicitor, _

_ Daphne _

  
  


_ - _

  
  


_ Hey Harry! _

 

_ So, I’m getting married to the prettiest girl in your year. Which is a weird thought, because she’s fifteen and I’m not seventeen yet, and I haven’t actually dated her at all, but she’s lovely, and I would have asked her out earlier if I weren’t sure she’d turn me down. _

 

_ Where the hell did I get the balls to offer to marry her? I must have nicked them off Godric himself. And the fact that she said yes? Merlin, I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. _

 

_ This marriage business will likely push back out schedules just slightly, coming to you. Daphne wants to finish her OWLs before moving, and there’s this whole business of actually telling the family I’m getting married— and to a Slytherin, no less, can you imagine? I’m giddy at the thought of it. _

 

_ We think we’ll try and swing by sometime around mid-summer, after she gets her OWL results. George might pop by earlier, but he’s not sure. We’ve never been apart, really, but with me marrying a proper Pureblood heiress and all it seems a bit strange to be sharing a room with my brother, don’t you think? _

 

_ Hope you’re enjoying your dangerous life outside the law, _

_ Fred _

  
  


_ - _

  
  


_ To my darling little brother Ronniekins, _

 

_ Guess who’s getting married? _

 

_ It’s Daphne Greengrass. She’s alright, for a Slytherin. I think you’ll like her. _

 

_ -Fred _

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Why isn’t Jenny talking to me?” Jane demands when she comes home from school that Monday. “Ron, what did you do?”

 

Ron shifts uneasily in his chair.

 

“We broke up, I think,” he says. “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

 

“I don’t know, Hermione!” he roars back, careless of the use of her name. “We had a fight and she bloody well fucked off! She just— she just—”

 

He sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I dunno. I dunno how to fix it.”

 

Jane glowers.

 

“Well, you damn well better figure out a way,” she says sharply. “And if you call me that again, I’ll cut your balls off. Henry?”

 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t turn away from the ever so interesting dishes he’s currently washing.

 

“Give me a cigarette.”

 

“Will do.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Miss Lovegood.”

 

“Mister Malfoy.”

 

Luna doesn’t look up from the bucket balanced between her knees. Draco sighs.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“The washing.”

 

Well, that much is obvious. She’s doing it by hand, no less, hands scalded red from the water as she scrubs the soap across a blood stain— a blood stain?

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing’s happened,” she says. “Not since you’ve taken to cursing Cho Chang if she so much as looks at me in the halls.”

 

Draco feels his face flush. He thought Luna hadn’t noticed. Certainly no one else has.

 

“As for the stain,” she continues. “The elves haven’t been able to do much for it. I thought perhaps an old-fashioned cleaning might do the trick.”

 

“What’s it from?”

 

“You.” Luna glances at him from under her hair. “Your hands were dirty from feeding the Thestrals when—”

 

“I understand.” Draco makes a face. “... Sorry.”

 

“It’s no matter. I’m used to it.”

 

“We have to go back to the way things were.”

 

“Than stop protecting me,” Luna says simply. “No one protected me before. If you want things to be the way they were you ought to stop.”

 

“I can’t do that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I’m a prefect. Bullying isn’t to be tolerated.”

 

“You never cared before.”

 

“Well, people change.”

 

“Not if they’re meant to marry a lady of proper station.” Luna dunks the shirt underwater. “And courting’s meant for marrying, if you’re a Pureblood. Everyone knows that.”

 

“You’re correct.”

 

“It would be improper for you to continue showing an interest in me.”

 

“I haven’t shown an interest in you.”

 

“Of course.”

 

They fall silent, letting the quiet hum of crickets wash over them in the face of the chilly night. This particular entrance is rarely used, which is likely why Luna chose its steps to do her washing experiment.

 

“Courting is a means to an end for Purebloods.”

 

Luna nods. “It is.”

 

“Courting is a traditional, formal bid for marriage.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So what’s dating, then?”

 

Luna blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve had some time to think,” Draco says, eyes firmly glued on the horizon. “And… among the upper class, in order to begin courting— proper, formal courting— first, there must be a declaration of intention.”

 

“I am aware, Draco.”

 

“But the thing is, you could be seeing someone informally for weeks before you ever declare,” Draco says. “And no one thinks anything of it. In fact, until intention is declared, young men and women are encouraged to informally receive multiple suitors, narrowing down the list until they have reason to formally begin courting. Isn’t that right, Miss Lovegood?”

 

“I…” Luna sits back, wiping her hand on the edge of her robes. “What’s your point, Mister Malfoy?”

 

“Miss Lovegood, I would like to begin seeing you, informally.” Draco shifts. “I’d like… to date you.”

 

“In secret, of course.”

 

“Well—”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Luna shakes her head. “I quite like you, Mister Malfoy, but you understand— I’m in a delicate position.”

 

“And I’m not?”

 

“You have your family’s reputation to protect you,” Luna says softly. “I don’t. I’m just Loony, remember?”

 

“You’re not Loony. You’re just… different.” Draco sighs, settling onto the cold stone beside her. “I don’t know. I can’t— I’m not looking to marry you.”

 

“I will never marry.”

 

Draco blinks. He’s never heard a Pureblood girl say anything like that, not even the Greengrass girls, and everyone knows they think of marriage the way others think of Azkaban.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Does that mean you’re opposed to… informally seeing each other?”

 

“You mean dating?”

 

“Yes, I mean dating.”

 

Luna sighs, amusement ghosting across her thin face.

 

“You’re an awkward boy,” she decides. “But I don’t mind. I don’t mind that people won’t be able to see us, either— but, Mister Malfoy—”

 

“Draco.” She stares, and he clears his throat. “You can call me Draco. I like when you did. Before.”

 

She smiles, a proper, sweet smile.

 

“Draco,” she says. “I don’t mind that we won’t tell people. It’s a private thing, as far as I’m concerned. But you must promise me one thing, Draco.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“You’ll stop protecting me. From the older girls.”

 

“I’m a prefect.”

 

“Then treat me the same as anyone else, as a prefect.” Luna pushes her hair out of her face. “I want no special treatment from you.”

 

Draco’s lips purse.

 

“Very well.” He puts out a hand. “I won’t treat you any differently from anyone else. As a prefect.”

 

Luna gives it a firm shake, then pulls him close to kiss him. It’s nice— just as good as before. Maybe even better.

  
Dating is an interesting option. He needs to explore it some more.


	17. Chapter 17

 

“Hey, man, we heard about Jenny.”

 

“We’re really sorry to hear about it, Weasel.”

 

“Wanna get drunk and see a show?”

 

Ron runs a hand through his greasy hair. He hasn’t taken a proper shower in… a couple of days, maybe? His shirt smells like beer, and he hasn’t bothered with anything more than boxers since Jane came home with a VHS and a Blockbuster Videos card three days ago.

 

“Drinking sounds like a fantastic plan,” he says.

 

“Great.” Tom slaps him on the back cheerfully. “Go put on some pants, dude. We’ve got a whole night ahead of us, right, Rocks?”

 

Rocky raises the plastic bag in her hand in answer. Glass bottles clink together invitingly.

 

“You bet your ass we do.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Where’s Ron? I can’t smell him anywhere.”

 

Henry looks up from his magazine.

 

“He went out with Tom and the rest,” he says. “I think they’ve planned a post-breakup bender for him.”

 

“That’s nice, I guess.” Jane sighs and collapses into the cushions beside him, plucking the lit cigarette out from between his fingers. She inhales deeply before taking it back. “Do you know what happened between him and Jenny?”

 

“He won’t say. Just that it’s his fault.”

 

“Well, obviously. Jenny really liked him.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Has Jenny talked to you?”

 

Jane huffs.

 

“No— and at the rate she’s going, our English grade’s dead in the water. Personal problems aside, we do have GPAs to keep up.”

 

“I suppose.” Henry has no idea what a GPA is. “Anyway, how was your first tutoring session with Miss Graves?”

 

Jane brightens.

 

“I think it went alright, honestly,” she says. “I mean, I’m a little bit rusty, but Timpani— she asked me to use her first name— has a very active way of teaching. I mean, I haven’t had a workout like that since Lupin, and…”

 

She keeps going, reasonably distracted, which is good, because Jane can usually tell when Henry’s lying, and eventually she’d ask a question he wouldn’t be able to answer truthfully without signing Ron’s death warrant.

 

The Dursleys weren’t worth much, but if he learned anything during his time with them, it was how to listen through keyholes.

  
  


*.*

  
  


**_August 12th, 1994_ **

  
  


The Longbottoms are a well-established family in the Magical World, politically relevant in seventeen Magical governments other than Wizarding Britain and economically relevant in more countries than that. Their empire is vast, their pockets are deep, and their connections are substantial.

 

Neville, for all that he doesn’t seem like the sort, is going to inherit it all, which pretty much just means he’s going to be the last Longbottom Lord. He’s not cut out for this sort of thing— the family will fall to ruin before he reaches twenty. At least, that’s what his Uncle Algie thinks.

 

Neville sort of thinks so too, if he’s honest. Which is why Augusta pulls him aside before the beginning of fifth year.

 

“You won’t be attending Hogwarts this year,” she tells him. “Instead, you will be taking a year off to study under your Aunt Olympia. You do remember Olympia, don’t you?”

 

“She, er— she’s the governor of the Magical California.”

 

Well, at least the boy remembered that much.

 

“She’s a bit odd,” Augusta continues. “But a leader in her field. An astute business woman, she has perfected the art of Magical land development within the United States, among other things. More importantly, she has a backbone, something you lack, child.”

 

Neville shrinks, which is exactly the problem.

 

“If you don’t learn anything from her by the time you come back, I would highly suggest you pass on your Lordship to a more qualified relative,” she says. “You’re a bright boy, Neville, but if you don’t grow up, you’ll be the ruin of us.”

 

Getting to her feet, she straightens her hat and looks down at her wilting grandson.

 

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she says. “Start packing.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


**_Mid-November, 1994_ **

  
  


The phone is ringing. It’s two-thirty in the morning, and the phone is ringing. The phone is also in the goddamn kitchen, which means Henry has to  _ get up and leave his bedroom _ to answer it.

 

Somebody better be dying.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Harry! Good, yes. Um, I’m going on tour. I’ll be back in three weeks.”

 

Henry blinks.

 

“Ron? What do you mean, you’re going on tour?”

 

“Well, Tom got arrested, drug possession or something, and now the Mongrels need a singer!” Ron sounds drunk. He must be drunk. Ron doesn’t sing. “So now I’m going on tour. It’ll be great. Tell Her— tell Janey, won’t you?”

 

“I— have you got your wand on you?”

 

“Nah. But I know how to use a phone if I really end up in shit, so I’ll be alright. Good?”

 

“I— yeah, I guess,” Henry says a little helplessly. “Put Rocky on the phone a minute?”

 

“Yeah, sure— Rocky!”

 

There’s the sound of fumbling, and then a girl’s voice takes over.

 

“Hello, Henry.”

 

“Are you sure about this?”

 

“He’s the only person I know who knows all the words to our songs and can hold a tune,” Rocky says. “He’ll be alright, promise. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Right,” he says. “Call me if you need anything, alright? Not just him, you guys too, alright?”

 

“Don’t worry, Cardy. This ain’t our first rodeo. We’ll have him back before Christmas.”

 

The line goes dead when she hangs up, so Henry follows suit, rubbing tiredly at his forehead.

 

Well, it seems Ron’s suitably distracted from this business with Jenny.

  
  


*.*

  
  


**_August 13th, 1994_ **

  
  


“You’re Neville, then?” Olympia looks him up and down from behind square wire glasses. “I see what Augusta means. Probably has something to do with that name, to be honest. Bad luck, that name.”

 

Neville swallows. “What do you mean?”

 

Olympia frowns.

 

“Well, Neville Chamberlain, of course!” she says. “Don’t you know your own history? He thought the best way to handle the Nazis was to appease the fascist pigs. He was a pussy, and carrying that name’s given you some of that pussishness, no doubt about it. What’s your middle name?”

 

“Er, Hagan.”

 

“Oh, I like the sound of that!” Olympia grins. “Hagan, that’s what I’ll call you.”

 

“Okay, I guess.”

 

“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “Longbottoms are never indecisive. Yes or no, nephew. Those are your options.”

 

Swallowing, Neville straightens his shoulders and looks his Aunt in the eye.

 

“Yes, that’s fine,” he says.

 

Olympia nods.

 

“Much better. Now, let’s go shopping— the heir apparent should be wearing Armani, at least, not this… whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely at his person. “The clothes make the man, Hagan. Remember that.”

 

“Yes, Aunt Olympia.”

  
His aunt’s completely, bleeding mad.


	18. Chapter 18

Intro to Photography is an elective, and while Jane would have preferred to fill the slot with something more useful, she is required to take an art class, and this? This she can do.

 

It’s not the worst class to take— in fact, as time goes on, Jane appreciates it more and more. Forced relaxation, that’s what it is, where all she has to focus on is the film and the dark. It’s… different.

 

She doesn’t have any friends in this class— doesn’t have many friends at all, really, now that Jenny isn’t speaking to her— so, for the most part, she goes it alone, developing rolls and rolls of film in hopes of creating something… something.

 

Mr. Vanne, Jane’s photography teacher, has allowed the class to take the day and find a subject. Jane doesn’t bother with that. She has rolls of of undeveloped film, taken at shows with Jenny and at home, with the boys and whoever else happened to be over, whether it be Ron’s friend Lars or his other friend Jello or his local friends, The Mongrels. The theme for the project is  _ New Life, _ and for Jane, all of this is very, very new.

 

Even with all this business with Jenny, Jane doesn’t remember being so… happy, before.

 

“That must be a lucky man, to have you smiling at his picture like that.”

 

Jane looks up at the sudden voice to find… one of her classmates.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“I say, that must be a lucky man, if you’re smiling at his picture the way you are.” The boy grins. “That kind of love is hard to find.”

 

“Oh.” Jane looks down. The photograph is of Henry, wearing a flowered apron at least fifteen years old and grinning at the camera. Half of his face is covered in flour, as is most of his bare shoulder. He’d been baking a cake for her sixteenth birthday when an accidental flick of his wand sent the flour bag careening through the air. It had been a good day.

 

“Oh,” she says. “No. This is my brother. He’s… sort of an idiot.”

 

“I can see the resemblance,” the boy says, eyes twinkling with good humor. “Your name is Miss Jane, I remember.”

 

“Er, yes.” She pauses, awkward. “I’m sorry to say I don’t remember yours.”

 

“Luis Iniesta,” he says, holding out a hand. “Nice to finally speak to you.”

 

She shakes the offered hand. “What do you mean, ‘finally’?”

 

“Well,” Luis says, running a hand through his dark, curly hair. “Maybe I use the word wrong. But the way I mean it, I mean… I have been working up the courage to speak to you, Miss Jane.”

 

“And why’s that? I’m not that hard to talk to.”

 

“You are very hard to talk to,” Luis says. “You are very intelligent, and very beautiful, and I wanted to impress you when we first talked. I am not sure I am succeeding.”

 

Jane chuckles.

 

“Well, we’ve only just started talking,” she says. “Why would you want to impress me?”

 

Luis smiles.

 

“Because I would like to know if you would like to eat with me.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. I would like to know if you would like to  _ go out _ to eat with me.”

 

Jane blinks.

 

“What? Really?”

 

“You are surprised,” he remarks. “Why?”

 

“I just…” Jane pauses. “I wasn’t expecting… that.”

 

Luis smiles.

 

“That is surprising,” he says. “What do you think, Miss Jane?”

 

Jane thinks about it. She’s single and bored and maybe a little lonely, and Luis is offering to take her out.

 

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she says, smiling. “Today, after school?”

 

“More like tonight,” he says apologetically. “I work after school. May I have your address?”

 

“Sure.” She scribbles down the address on the back of a less than perfect photograph and hands it to him. “I have my phone number written down, as well. Call me when you’re coming, alright?”

 

Luis smiles like she just told him she hung the moon, photograph pressed over his heart.

 

“I will, Miss Jane,” he says, taking her hand and pressing his mouth lightly against her knuckles. “You can count on that.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


‘Cardy’ is not the worst name to be known by. Henry grew up in a house that called him a freak, after all. He went to school and was called the Boy-Who-Lived. Being named after his preferred sweater? Not that horrible.

 

Besides, he kind of likes it.

 

When he wanders into Gilman Street, people know his name. He’s gone to more of these shows, now, made acquaintances with with bright hair and spiked jackets over conversations about music and beer (that they can’t drink on the premises) and television. He’s not sure how many people actually know his real name anymore. He doesn’t think it’s that many.

 

It’s loud and it’s angry and it fun, and even though Henry doesn’t quite fit in, he doesn’t feel like an outsider. It’s… different. Good.

 

Jane’s out with a Muggle boy, so he’s alone when Jenny catches him by the elbow and pulls him to the edge of the crowd.

 

“Jenny, hello,” he greets, leaning in to speak.

 

She leans back, looking nervous. 

 

“Did you know about him?” she asks, grip tightening on Henry’s arm. “Ron. Did you know about him?”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“This isn’t the best place to have this conversation,” he says. “If you want, you can come by the house and I’ll explain.”

 

“No— not the house.”

 

“Somewhere else, then?” he offers. “Somewhere quiet, though— it’s supposed to be a secret, you know.”

 

Jenny’s mouth pinches, causing the cheap purple lipstick to crack along the seam of her mouth.

 

“Pizza,” she says finally. “The place around the corner’s open ‘til two.”

 

That… okay. Fine.

 

“I’ll buy,” he says.

 

“I’ll buy, you explain,” Jenny says. “Properly.”

 

Maybe Ron was right to confess to her when she asked. She isn’t… she isn’t trying to kill him, or call the X-Files people to track down Ron. She’s… she’s trying to understand, trying to learn for herself— at least, that’s how it seems to Henry.

 

He’ll try to explain, then, try to give an explanation better than the one he himself got at age eleven, and when he’s done, he’ll make the decision— Obliviate her, or not.

  
He hopes he doesn’t have to Obliviate her.


	19. Chapter 19

 

Ron has never been so hungry in his life. At the same time, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy. Touring is the greatest thing a person can do. America is a big place, with lots of different people and quirks and… it’s really nice.

 

The girls are amazing, too. One of them invites the band over to celebrate some kind of American holiday when they were in Des Moines— Thanksgiving, she called it. There was enough to feed all the Weasleys three times over. Ron hasn’t felt this full since… he isn’t even sure he’s ever been this full.

 

Her name’s Louisa, and she gives him his number when they leave the next morning for Bismarck.

 

This tour? Best decision ever.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Alright, then. Explain.”

 

Henry swallows the last of his pizza and sighs, setting down the remnants of his crust.

 

“Okay, so from what I understand, you saw Ron do… do something unusual.”

 

“He said it was magic, and that he was a wizard,” Jenny says flatly.

 

“... Right.” Henry sighs. “Well, to put it simply, he wasn’t lying.”

 

“So you did know about him.”

 

“Yes. Jane as well. We’re like him, sort of.” He shifts. “Jane and I grew up around non-Magic people. We weren’t introduced to Magic until we were eleven, when we went to school. Ron was born in the Wizarding World. It’s all he knew, until we came here, so sometimes… he’s gotten pretty good at fitting in with Muggles— er, non-Magic people— but, he forgot himself, with you.”

 

“There are…” Jenny trails off. “You’re… a wizard too? And Jane?”

 

“Jane’s a witch, yeah.”

 

“How’d you get your powers? Are there a lot of you? There must be, if there’s a school. How come no one’s noticed, if you’re apparently organized enough to have a school.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“We were born Magical, there aren’t a lot of us, but there’s enough that some sort of order needed to be kept. In every country, there is a small community of Wizards, complete with a government and laws and all the things that come with those structures, and… yeah. It’s all a bit complicated.

 

“Essentially— in Britain, at least— the way it works is that there’s a small section of London that’s hidden from non-Magic people. That place holds our shops, our government, and our bank, which, if you’re interested, is run by goblins. If you’re Magical, your kids grow up knowing about this world. If you’re not, a person comes to your house when you get your school acceptance letter and explains everything to you and your parents and help you get your school supplies and things. Jane, she’s Muggleborn, so she got a visit from one of the Hogwarts teachers.”

 

“And you?” Jenny asks. “You said you grew up normal, too.”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“I was… a special case,” he says. “My parents were both Magical, but they died when I was a baby, so I grew up with my mother’s sister. She hated Magic, and thereby hated me. I didn’t know anything until a half-giant broke down the door and explained it to me himself, because Aunt Petunia wouldn’t let me actually receive my letter.”

 

“Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

 

“I think she just hated me. Her family’s irritatingly  _ normal— _ you’d hate them on sight if you met them. A perfect, suburban home. They’d cross the street if they saw you. They’d think you were some kind of hooligan.”

 

Jenny snorts.

 

“Hooligan, really?”

 

“It’s the word they’d use.” Henry sits back. “Anyway, we all met in Hogwarts— our school, if you haven’t gathered. It was a boarding school, which was great for me. I made friends with Ron on the train there, and Jane a bit later. We’ve been together ever since.”

 

“So… you weren’t all adopted, then.”

 

“Not… not really? Due to a series of bizarre and dangerous events, I was Magically emancipated,” Henry says, shrugging. “My Dad was a Lord, so I got his title, and— thanks to the fact that Magical law is really old-fashioned— I was granted custody over my friends so we could run away and do Magic without government interference or their parents coming after them.”

 

“A Lord? You’re a  _ noble?” _

 

“In the loosest sense, yeah. Ron is too, technically, but he’s the youngest boy of six, so he’s never going to actually be a Lord… there’s a whole… it’s all very complicated.”

 

“I’ve got time— hey, let’s take a walk to the beach.”

 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

She isn’t freaking out. She’s… well, maybe she’s freaking out a little bit, but it isn’t… she’s taking it well. Clearly, she doesn’t know what to do with any of the information Henry’s given her, which is probably why she’s focusing more on his Lordship rather than… the magic.

 

She’s doing okay though, and for Henry? That’s enough.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I think we might need to move up the wedding,” Fred murmurs the next time he catches Daphne alone. He’s been doing that more and more often, now, finding her in the dark places she likes to spend her days, George nowhere to be seen. “Rumor has it in the Ministry that paperwork’s going through to have Rabastan moved before Christmas. Guess your Mum wanted a Yule Wedding for her little girl.”

 

Outwardly, Daphne seems mildly disgusted. Inwardly, her blood has turned to ice.

 

“When?” she asks.

 

“Well, your Dad’s here,” he says. “So I’m guessing now would be good.”

 

Daphne curses, running a hand through her perfectly arranged hair.

 

“You know, I’m starting to think you might need to change your career path,” Fred says, grinning.

 

“To what?” she snaps, more out of anxiety than irritation.

 

“Sailor.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Malfoy’s been really nice, lately.”

 

“I know, right? He had Nott written up when he jinxed Lisa’s skirt to fly up during lunch yesterday, can you believe it?”

 

The fourth year Ravenclaws continue to whisper among themselves, indifferent to Luna’s presence just on the other side of the table.

  
_ Well,  _ she thinks, smiling quietly to herself.  _ That’s certainly a way for him to keep his promise to her. _


	20. Chapter 20

Her father officiates. Their witnesses are George, of course, and Astoria, who had no idea what was happening until they were already in Diagon.

 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Astoria hisses. “You’ve buggered me, Daphne— she won’t let this happen twice!”

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Daphne says, ignoring the pang in her heart when she meets her sister’s furious eyes. “We’ll figure something out for you, I promise.”

 

Astoria huffs.

 

“You bloody well better.”

 

After all’s said and done, their father takes them to dinner. Daphne, seated beside Fred, watches her father talk business with Fred and George.

 

“Now that we’re here, I’ve got to say something,” Fred says, glancing apologetically at Daphne. “George and I… well, we’ve been making plans to possibly move to America.”

 

Her father nods.

 

“Daphne has passed more than few letters on to me to forward to Lord Potter,” he says. “I imagine that has something to do with it.”

 

Fred nods.

 

“Our family doesn’t know about that, but yeah. It isn’t the only reason, though,” he says. “Our parents believe the Dark Lord’s back… and we do too.”

 

“You’d be stupid to think otherwise,” Mr. Greengrass says calmly. “So, what do you intend to do?”

 

“We thought we’d buy the shop in Diagon and wait ‘til things blew over,” George says. “But considering Harry’s on the other side of the world and the Order might not be… effective, it might just be that we have to set down roots in the nearest Magical community there.”

 

“It’d work out for Daphne, because she’s planning on stealing the Potters from your client list,” Fred adds, smiling slightly. “But… we don’t have the connections we might need to start all over again.”

 

“Your mail-order service has served you well in Great Britain,” Mr. Greengrass agrees. “I see no reason why you could not begin again. The American system might do you well, actually… they’re all about business, there.”

 

The look on his face is familiar to both the Greengrass— sorry, the Greengrass and Weasley girl. Astoria arches an eyebrow at her sister, and she arches one back.

 

“How so, Mr. Greengrass?”

 

“Please, call me Merrick.”

 

“Merrick.”

 

“Well, Fred,” Merrick says, leaning forward over the table as a slow smile creeps across his face. “Have you ever heard of a ‘chain’?”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Hey, Mum, _

 

_ I’m sorry to spring this on you, but we thought there was more time. I got married, three days ago, to Daphne Greengrass. She’s a Slytherin, a fifth year. _

 

_ I know the face you’re making, the sound, but listen, Mum, she was in trouble. Her mother was trying to buy her protection from the Dark Lord— by having her marry Rabastan Lestrange. Apparently there’s a clause or something about Azkaban and family heirs, and her Mum’s a bit of a hag. She wanted Daphne married into a traditional family. One that wouldn’t let her work as a solicitor. That’s what she wants to be, Mum, can you imagine? _

 

_ We thought we had more time, at least until after Christmas, which is why I didn’t tell you. I wanted to do it in person. But things happened and, well, we had to hurry. So I’m married, now, to a brilliant girl from a good family who needed help. _

 

_ I writing you now, because one, you ought to know your son got married, and two, Mr. Greengrass doesn’t think Daphne will be allowed to go home for Christmas. He’s probably right, because just this morning Daphne got a Howler from her Mum, right at breakfast. It was… Mum, the woman’s positively horrible. It’s a good thing she doesn’t have the power to disown her, really, or else she’d never see Astoria (my new sister-in-law) again. _

 

_ I’m writing to ask if it would be alright for me to bring her to Christmas, to have her meet the whole family instead of being stuck in the castle. She’s not saying, but I think she’s taking it pretty hard. I mean, her Mum called her a bloodtraitor whore, which I think is a bit unfair. At least we’re still Sacred 28, you know? _

 

_ I figure you’ll want to know about the ceremony. The wedding was small, done in Mr. Greengrass’ office, and we had dinner afterward at a little restaurant nearby. Mr. Greengrass officiated, and George and Astoria witnessed it. She’s a nice girl, Mum, honestly. Clever and funny and sweet, if a bit stiff— but we’ve been working on that, honest. She’s really, really great. I think you’ll like her. _

 

_ Anyway, I figure I’ve said enough. I’ve got to get back to George, we have the biggest thing planned— but I don’t think you’ll want to hear about that. _

 

_ Love you, Mum. _

 

_ -Fred _

  
  


*.*

  
  


Molly’s blessedly alone when the mail comes that morning. Sirius has taken to spending excessive amounts of time alone with Buckbeak, and that includes breakfast, so no one is there to see her open the letter. To see her read it once, confused, then twice, disbelieving, then a third time, heartbroken.

 

That poor girl… Molly knows Lemaria Greengrass, and she knows it couldn’t have been easy to make such an important choice so early on in life. And her son… oh, Freddy. She’s always hoped she raised her sons well, but marriage? The twins are so young.

 

Still. It seems the girl’s his friend, at least, and she’s a part of her family, now. This Daphne girl should have a chance, at least.

 

Decision made, she finds a quill and some parchment.

 

_ Fred,  _ she writes.  _ Christmas sounds lovely, but I believe we may be celebrating at headquarters. If you can get permission from Professor Dumbledore, I will be happy to have her. If not, we’ll just have to have Christmas at the Burrow. You did a good thing, sweetheart. Clearly Daphne needed someone, and you stepped up. We’ll have a little something when she comes over, so we can introduce her to the family proper. Nothing big, but something to celebrate.  _

  
_ You did a good thing, Fred. I’m proud of you. _


	21. Chapter 21

**_August 12, 1994_ **

 

“While I don’t agree that the clothes make the man, I find they can help, on occasion.” Aunt Olympia eyes him critically. “How do you feel?”

 

“Er… it fits well,” Neville offers. “It’s… different?”

 

“Be decisive, Hagan. And be honest. You couldn’t hurt my feelings if you tried.”

 

Neville swallows.

 

“I don’t feel like me,” he says. “Not… not in a bad way, exactly. But… it’s odd.”

 

“You’re like you’re Dad,” Olympia says. “He was into frumpy sweaters and slouching, too. But he could straighten up when needed. Couldn’t have been an Auror otherwise.”

 

Neville’s lips pinch.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he says.

 

Olympia arches an eyebrow.

 

“You’ve got some bite to you,” she says. “I like it. Though it doesn’t suit a pastel color scheme. Give me a minute— I’ve got an idea.”

 

She disappears from the dressing room, returning a moment later with a thick binder.

 

“Come here,” she says. “Off the rack isn’t going to suit you, so we’re going to go another way. Pick a few colors. We’ll have you fitted and get something to eat. Then, we need to stop by Magical San Francisco.”

 

“Why?” Neville asks.

 

“Because,” Olympia says. “You need a haircut and a proper wand.”

 

“What’s wrong with my hair?” He pauses. “This was my Dad’s wand!”

 

“And, like your hair, it just doesn't suit you.” She snorts. “I could feel it the moment you arrived, Hagan. Frank’s skills were in Transfiguration and Defense. You… you’re something else.”

 

“What am I?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “But that’s why we’re going to get you a new wand.”

 

*.*

 

**_Late November, 1994_ **

 

“This… is a lot,” Jenny says finally. “I— I think I need some time. To process.”

 

“I get it,” Henry says easily. “Take all the time you need.”

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promises. “I won’t. I believe you when you say it’s a big deal to tell normal people. I mean… I can’t imagine what could happen if the military found out or something. Fuck nuclear Holocaust— magic could bring on end times.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Henry says. “I feel like Muggles on the whole sort of expect some sort of oddness in the world. Religion wouldn’t exist otherwise, you know?”

 

Jenny huffs a laugh.

 

“Yeah, I guess,” she agrees. “Henry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks for explaining everything. Really.”

 

“Not a problem.” He pauses. “Er, just so you know, you’re always welcome to stop by. Jane misses you, and I mean, I don’t think you’re too bad either.”

 

She hits him, but she’s smiling.

 

“You’re an asshole, Cardy.”

 

“You’re the first one to tell me so.”

 

“Don’t worry— I’m sure you’ll get confirmation soon enough.”

 

*.*

 

“Is it true, do you think?” Draco asks her one morning in the Forest. “That Daphne and Weasley are actually married?”

 

Luna shrugs.

 

“Her mother certainly seemed to think so,” she says. “I didn’t know noble ladies were allowed to swear like that.”

 

Draco makes an amused sound, fingers carding absently through her hair.

 

“They’re not supposed to,” he says. “But everyone knows Lady Greengrass is a bit mad. Rumor has it her Mum had an affair with her brother, and she’s the product of it.”

 

“Inbreeding isn’t so uncommon.”

 

“That closely related, though?” Draco wrinkles his nose. “Even the Blacks didn’t try that. And they’ve done some barking mad things for the sake of purity.”

 

Luna hums.

 

“I think I’m Pure by accident,” she says. “Lovegoods never held with blood purity as a model, really. The concept is too structured. It just kept happening that way.”

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “There’s a text in the Malfoy records that claims that we’re descended from French kings, actually.”

 

“Really?”

 

Draco shrugs.

 

“My ancestor was a bastard son of Louis the Eleventh,” he says. “According to his personal journals, upon his introduction to the Magical World, he found that, despite his royal blood, he was looked down upon for being a half-blood. When he was of age, he changed his name to Scorpius de Malfoi— which was eventually anglicized to the more modern Malfoy— and immigrated to England, where he claimed to be the illegitimate son of the former High Priest of the French Circle, who had died some ten years previously. No one could prove otherwise, so… he got away with it.”

 

Luna twists her head so she can meet his eyes.

 

“That sounds like something the Malfoys wouldn’t want to be known,” she remarks.

 

“Well,” he says, the picture of nonchalance. “It is a closely guarded family secret… I suppose you’ll have to promise to keep it to yourself, or I’ll simply have to kill you.”

 

She smiles.

 

“No one would believe me if I told them,” she says.

 

He hums.

 

“You make a very good point, Luna,” he says. “Nobody would believe such an outlandish claim.”

 

“Still,” she says thoughtfully. “Best not to create unwarranted rumor. I swear on my wand that I’ll keep your secret, Draco Malfoy, so long as you promise to keep mine.”

 

“And what is your secret, dearest?”

 

He feels her shiver against his side.

 

“It’s silly,” she warns.

 

“I like your silliness.”

 

“Thank you.” She settles herself more comfortably, returning her gaze to the treeline. “I think— though of course I can’t be sure— that I may be in love with you.”

 

Draco blinks, insides freezing quite abruptly.

 

“I think,” he says slowly. “That you are quite correct in that we can’t be sure. We’re both quite young, yet, and cliche as it may be to say, we’re probably a bit too stupid to make such assumptions. Nevertheless, I’ll keep your secret, if that’s what you wish.”

 

He can see the way her cheek rises in a smile, can feel her cold fingers wrap around his. He doesn’t know what she gleaned from his response, but clearly, she approves of it.

 

“You are a practical young man, Draco,” she says. “You’ll make a good Lord someday.”

  
“Thank you,” he says, putting on his best imitation of his father’s accent. “I quite think so, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's a naughty boy, telling non-family dirty family secrets. :)


	22. Chapter 22

“She knows?”

 

“She knows.”

 

Jane sighs.

 

“This is highly irregular,” she says. “And probably illegal.”

 

“It would have have happened eventually,” Henry returns.

 

“I suppose.” Jane glances at the television. “Has Ron called?”

 

“Last night,” Henry says. “He was a bit drunk, but he seems to be enjoying himself.”

 

“He didn’t take his wand.”

 

“No,” he says. “No, he didn’t. But he’s alright at wandless stuff.”

 

“Do you think he’s ever going to finish his studies?”

 

Henry pauses.

 

“I think…” he trails off, then starts again. “I think he’s found a niche that he’s quite happy in, one that doesn’t require magic.”

 

Jane looks a little sad.

 

“It’s a shame,” she says. “He could have been something great, if he wanted.”

 

“Who’s to say he won’t still be something great?” Henry asks. “Magic isn’t the cure for everything, you know.”

 

“I suppose.” She glances at him from over her cigarette. “How about you? Are you planning on continuing your studies?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“Sort of,” he says. “I’ve been reading up on theory and things, since I have the time.”

 

“Have you?”

 

He nods.

 

“It’s pretty interesting, when you’re not getting graded,” he says.

 

Jane snorts.

 

“I suppose I ought to lecture you on the dangers of practicing magic unsupervised,” she says. “But at the same time, we’re underage teenaged runaways living alone in a strange country. I feel like the argument is… superfluous.”

 

“Quite,” Henry agrees, smiling a little. “So, I think we’ll be expecting Sirius and Lupin for Christmas.”

 

“To visit or to stay?”

 

“To stay.”

 

Jane nods thoughtfully.

 

“I thought they might,” she admits. “Hey, Henry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are Sirius and Lupin…” she trails off, fiddling with a braid awkwardly. “Are they… you know. Together?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“No idea,” he says. “I think they were, at some point. I don’t know about now, though.”

 

Jane makes a face.

 

“We might want to invest in sound-proofing charms,” she says. “Just in case.”

 

Henry thinks about the idea of hearing Sirius’ vocalisations mid-orgasm and immediately wishes he didn’t. The man is his  _ godfather, _ for Merlin’s sake.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

 

“Ron’s room, too,” Jane adds, sensible as always. “If Jenny turns out to be alright with all this magic business, well… it’s inevitable, really. Ron’s a bit...  _ lizard-brained.” _

 

Henry has never heard that phrase before, but in that moment, he understands exactly what it means.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Remus is in the house again, looking even more ragged than usual. Whatever Dumbledore has him doing, it’s killing him.

 

Molly isn’t attuned to Remus the way Sirius is, and honestly, she hasn’t been herself since Ron disappeared, even if she has become a bit more lively in light of Fred’s  _ happy _ news.

 

A Weasley and a Greengrass. Who’d’ve thought?

 

Still, her inattention means that it’s easy to hustle Remus upstairs and into his room, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Order. There’s no meeting today, technically, but Dumbledore’s planning to visit, so here they all are, pretending to be checking up on Molly.

 

Remus is half asleep by the time Sirius gets him up the stairs and sits him down on the bed, limp as Sirius works off his shoes and strips off his robes.

 

“We’re leaving,” Sirius says in a furious whisper. “We’re leaving, Remus, and no one can stop us. Not the Ministry, not the Order, not Dumbledore.”

 

“I’m not the only one,” Remus says softly. “Moody’s in on it too. He’s not just using me.”

 

“A werewolf and a disgraced Auror.” Sirius scoffs. “Nobody’ll miss you two if the worst happens.”

 

“Way to make a guy feel good about himself,” Remus murmurs, trying for a smile and landing somewhere closer to a grimace.

 

Sirius rolls his eyes.

 

“You know what I meant,” he says.

 

Remus sighs.

 

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. But not right now. I’m knackered.”

 

“Oh, does Moony need a nap?” Sirius teases. “Come on, then.”

 

He presses Remus down into the pillows, toeing off his own shoes before collapsing into the space beside him.

 

“You remember when we were in school?” Sirius asks, rolling onto his back. “And McDonald told us that if we got out of bed for anything after curfew alarms would sound and we’d get expelled?”

 

Remus chuckles. “We were the best-behaved those first three months of school— we believed him.”

 

“Well, we were first years.”

 

Remus sighs.

 

“You used to sneak into my bed before curfew,” he says. “So you’d have somebody to talk to.”

 

“Yeah.” Sirius pauses, an odd smile playing across his face. “Me ‘n’ James figured out he was lying the first week, you know.”

 

“Did you really?”

 

Sirius nods.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “But I asked him not to tell you.”

 

Remus is nearly asleep. His eyelids flutter in a weak attempt to stay awake.

 

“And why’s that?”

 

Sirius shrugs.

 

“I think I thought you were pretty,” he says. “Even back then.”

 

Remus lets out a breathy laugh.

 

“Damn charmer,” he says, rolling into Sirius’ shoulder. “Let me sleep. We can plan our escape in the—” A yawn cuts him off. “In the morning.”

 

That’s exactly what they’ll do, Sirius thinks as he settles an arm around Remus’ shoulder.

 

Sirius has said it before and he’ll say it again. Harry is far smarter than most people give him credit for.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Albus! What’s happened?”

 

Molly steps back to let the man in, one hand out to take his cloak. She hasn’t seen him look this grim since— not since the war.

 

“Get everyone into the dining room,” he says. “I have news.”

 

News. News is never a good thing, not when you’ve joined the Order. The very word sends chills down Molly’s spine, bringing forward memories of Dark magic and death and  _ fear, _ so much fear.

 

“Albus,” she says quietly. “Tell me what happened.”

 

Dumbledore gives her a long look, like it’s up for debate or some such thing.

 

“It’s Arthur,” he finally says. “I’m afraid he’s been attacked, Molly.”

 

The cloak slips from her numb fingers. Her vision seems to narrow.

 

“What?”

 

“The children are on their way,” he continues, one hand landing on her shoulder to steady her. “The young Mrs. Weasley has been allowed access to Grimmauld as well.”

 

“Where is he?” she asks. “How bad?”

 

“St. Mungo’s— it was a snake bite.” Dumbledore leads her towards a small bench, pushing her gently into the seat. “He is in critical condition, but the healers are hopeful. Molly, you must keep calm.”

 

“I am calm,” she says automatically, but there isn’t the usual fire there should be to accompany the words. “Can I see him?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

Molly nods.

 

“Call the meeting,” she says. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

 

“Molly—”

 

“I’m going to wait for my children, if that’s alright.”

 

Dumbledore seems to decide against arguing with her. He straightens and steps back.

 

“Arthur will be alright,” he says. “He’s strong.”

  
She doesn’t bother to answer him.


	23. Chapter 23

Henry wakes up suddenly, dark satisfaction coursing through his veins like tar. Something’s wrong. Something’s very, very wrong.

 

Scrambling blindly for the lamp beside his bed barely flinches when the room is suddenly flooded with light. He grabs for a spare piece of parchment and pen, and scribbles, half-blind, the only thing he can think.

  
  


_ What happened? _

  
  


Shoving the parchment into his mailbox, he rolls back over onto the bed, letting the fear shakes itself across his body. He does his best to stay quiet, to keep the gasping sobs that want to break themselves free of his throat, but it isn’t enough.

 

Jane hears him anyway.

 

It isn’t the first time he’s woken up like this, of course, but the experience never becomes less unpleasant. Even with the sudden comfort of Jane slipping into the bed beside him, curling against his back and tucking her face into his neck.

 

“Voldemort’s done something,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”

 

“Imagine walls,” Jane whispers back. “Build them as high as you can, Henry. Buid them so high you can’t see the top. Keep him out.  _ Keep him out.” _

 

He does as she says, screwing his eyes shut with the effort. Slowly, slowly, the feeling recedes, leaving nothing but Henry.

 

At some point he falls asleep again.

 

Eventually.

  
  


*.*

  
  


There was no marriage bed waiting for Daphne on her wedding day. In fact, until she was brought to Grimmauld Place, she had quite forgotten about it, right up until Mrs. Weasley, pale and puffy-eyed, sends the children to bed, including Daphne.

 

Not that it means anything, of course— at least, not now. His father has been hospitalized, for God’s sake, and anyway, Fred’s her friend. He wouldn’t ask anything of her she would be unwilling to give.

 

He’s hollow-eyed and haunted when she leads him to his— their— room, uncaring when she realizes he’ll make no move to dress himself and opens his trunk herself, setting aside bits and bobs of inventions until she finds a pair of— frankly eye-watering— orange pajama bottoms.

 

She pushes the fabric into nerveless hands.

 

“Change,” she orders. “Please.”

 

His eyes finally focus on her face, and— oh, he looks… lost.

 

She doesn’t know what to do with that. She wonders if she should call George, perhaps have him spend the night with his brother, but no. George is much in the same boat, he’ll be of no help.

 

Sighing to herself, Daphne goes to her own trunk, tugging free her nightgown before disappearing behind the modesty screen that someone has so helpfully set up in the corner. 

 

Probably Mrs Weasley, she thinks as she strips off her school robes and pulls on the gown. Fred told his mother why Daphne married him, after all. Or rather, why he married Daphne. It’s likely she took into account Daphne’s newfound status is still… unsettling.

 

Daphne thinks she must be one of the strongest women in England, if she can think of such simple comforts as a screen while her husband lies in hospital.

 

Fred, thankfully, is in bed by the time she slips back out from behind the screen. His eyes find hers, and suddenly, she feels awkward.

 

“You look like a ghost, dressed like that,” he says. They’re the first words he’s said since they were told the news of his father’s attack, and she doesn’t really know what to do with them.

 

The nightgown is a favorite of hers for a reason— the dove gray cotton brushes the floor when she walks, and serves as an excellent cover for when she inevitably kicks off her blankets in the night.

 

But yes, she supposes she might look a bit ghostly. She’s pale already, and the half light of the bedside candles wash out the honey blonde of her hair and throw shadows deep into the space under her cheekbones, making her seem gaunt when she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror.

She shrugs and settles carefully onto the free half of the bed, tucking her legs carefully under satin sheets that are likely older than her grandmother.

 

When she lies down, the candles go out.

 

“I’m sorry,” Fred murmurs into the darkness. “I know you weren’t expecting the warmest welcome, but this…”

 

“Your father’s attack is no one’s fault,” Daphne says, eyes on the ceiling. “Besides the Dark Lord’s, of course.”

 

“You call him that?”

 

“Sorry. Habit.”

 

“It’s alright.” Fred pauses. “Do you think… do you think he’ll survive?”

 

Daphne thinks about lying, thinks about whether it’ll help.

 

“The snake’s poison is rumored to be magically enhanced,” she says. “He won’t be healed by normal means. Perhaps if they have a truly talented Potions Master, perhaps, or a healer with a background in poisons…”

 

“Snape’s still out looking for Harry,” Fred says dully. “Dumbledore said he won’t call him back.”

 

“I know.” Daphne reaches out in the darkness, grasping for cold fingers. She squeezes tightly. “I’m sorry.”

 

Fred takes a shallow breath.

 

“My Dad’s gonna die,” he says. “He’s going to die, and Dumbledore’s not going to try and stop it.”

 

Daphne doesn’t say anything, even when she hears the wet little gasps that tell her he’s begun to cry. She doesn’t need to.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Sirius wakes up to a house full of somber children and terrible news. Thank Merlin Tonks thought to slip a note under the door for him to find. Otherwise he might have made a fool of himself.

 

She really is one of the good ones.

 

It looks like he and Remus ought to plan their escape at a later date.

 

Molly is at the hospital by the time they’re both up and moving, and instead there is a blonde girl with a Slytherin green shawl wrapped around her shoulders standing over the stove, poking at a frying pan full of sausages with a fork and scrambling eggs.

 

“Who in seven hells are you?”

 

The girl jumps, whirling in place to find the source of the voice. Her eyes go wide when she catches sight of him, fork falling from her fingers to clatter across the wooden floors.

 

“Sirius Black?”

 

“The one and only.” He takes a step closer, frowning slightly. “You’re the Greengrass girl, aren’t you? The one Fred married.”

 

She swallows.

 

“Yes, sir,” she says, curtsying carefully. She doesn’t take her eyes off him. “I… Harry said you weren’t actually a murderer. He didn’t say you were…” she trails off, uncertain.

 

Sirius arches an eyebrow.

 

“Harry? Well, well, I didn’t know my godson had such pretty yearmates,” he says, hands on his hips. “What’s your name, dear?”

 

She straightens, and— oh, yes, she’s a proper Pureblood, even if she is dressed in decidedly unladylike sleepwear.

 

“Daphne Weasley, sir,” she says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

He grins.

 

“I bet it is,” he says.

 

“Sirius, who are you—” Remus freezes in the doorway of the kitchen, shirt half-buttoned. “Miss Greengrass, good morning.”

 

She smiles politely, which Sirius wasn’t expecting.

 

“Good morning, Professor Lupin,” she greets. “And It’s Mrs. Weasley, now— though you may call me Daphne, if you prefer. It might get confusing, otherwise.”

 

“Ah— yes,” Remus says, awkward. “I did hear about that. Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you.” She gestures to the table. “Breakfast’s almost ready. Fred and George are awake, along with their sister, I think. Tea?”

 

“Please.” Remus glances at Sirius, who shrugs and takes a seat. It’s his damn house, after all. He’s got nothing to be worried about here, let alone a little Pureblood heiress who is apparently making them breakfast.

 

A moment later, Remus settles beside him, and a moment after that, there’s a familiar-looking tea tray set down on the table.

 

“Where on Earth did you find this?” Sirius asks, tapping the tray with his knuckle as Remus flips two cups and begins to pour.

 

“The house elf,” Daphne says, turning back to the stove. “He was skulking around the pantry when I was looking for ingredients. I thought he might want something to do.”

 

“Which one?”

 

She shrugs.

 

“I didn’t ask his name,” she says. “Though he complimented me on my scarf. Very sweet thing, if a bit on in years.”

 

Remus gives Sirius an odd look.

 

“Kreacher?” he mouths.

 

“Maybe,” Sirius mouths back. He wouldn’t be surprised. None of the Hogwarts elves are older than sixty, and Kreacher’s always had a knack with Pureblood women. Even his mother barely mutilated him, after all.

 

“I smell sausages,” one of the twins announces, swanning into the kitchen with forced carelessness.

 

“Good morning, George,” Daphne says without looking. “Set the table, would you?”

 

“Your wish is my command, sister,” he says, pausing to press a kiss to her cheek as he goes. Daphne doesn’t twitch, not at the pet name or the affection, which makes Sirius think George has been doing that for a while, now.

 

“Sirius, Remus, we didn’t see you last night,” George says, gathering plates and utensils.

 

“Er, yes,” Remus agrees. “I’d only come home a few hours before, and…”

 

“Nobody woke us for the meeting,” Sirius says, eyeing Daphne uncertainly. “Tonks left us a note to find in the morning. I’m sorry, George.”

 

George shrugs.

 

“Not your fault, is it?” he says. “All part of being in the Order, right? At least, that’s what they tell us. I wouldn’t know.”

 

There’s a bitterness in his words that is familiar, but before Sirius can address it, Ginny’s there, red-eyed from little sleep and tears.

 

She doesn’t say anything to any of them, just takes a teacup and pulls up a chair.

 

It’s all incredibly awkward, honestly, and it’s a blessing when Daphne turns back to the table and starts setting down bowls of eggs and sausage and potatoes.

 

“Thank you, dear,” Remus says, offering her an apologetic smile.

 

“Of course, Professore.”

 

“Remus,” he corrects. “I’m not your professor any longer.”

 

“A pity,” she says. “You were one of our best.”

 

Well, damn, Sirius thinks. Now he has to like the girl. She’s made Remus glow.

 

“It smells like Mum didn’t cook today,” Fred says as he pads into the kitchen, hair wrapped up in a lime green towel and a spot of shaving cream on his face. “Daphne, you can cook?”

 

“When I need to,” she says. “You missed a spot.”

 

“Did I?” He takes the seat between her and George.

 

She nods, wiping the cream off his nose with a thumb before turning back to her plate.

 

“Aw, thanks love,” he says, leaning forward to peck her on the cheek.

 

Or at least, that’s what it looks like. One of the perks of being an Animagus? Your senses become just a little sharper.

 

So Sirius hears the little whisper in her ear across the table, can connect it to the passing of a folded note between the pair that looks like a squeeze of a hand.

 

_ “Harry sent a message.” _

 

Daphne nods imperceptibly, and Fred pulls away.

  
It seems that the newly-minted Mrs. Weasley is just as involved in the world of the Boy-Who-Lived as everyone else at the table. Go figure.


	24. Chapter 24

Tonks is the one who brings Molly back that evening, just in time for dinner, assuming someone thought to make it.

 

They’re greeted to the smell of curry wafting from the kitchen, along with the sound of quiet conversation. Curious, Molly hangs up her cloak and creeps towards the doorway.

 

Fred’s little friend— his wife, Molly corrects— is spooning out helpings of chicken, chatting idly with Alastor, who’s seated between Sirius and the twins and scowling in that way that means he’s pleased.

 

“It really is a shame it wasn’t actually you who was teaching us,” Daphne says as she ladles out another portion onto his plate. “My father was rather excited when I told him you’d be our teacher— he said you were the best.”

 

“Well, lass, perhaps if there’s time I might teach you a thing or two,” he says, pulling the plate closer. “Provided you prove trustworthy, of course.”

 

Daphne laughs, a trained, charming tinkling of bells that is more breeding than good humor.

 

“You’re eating what I’ve made, Mr. Moody,” she says. “As far as I can tell, that’s trust enough, don’t you think?”

 

Moody growls but doesn’t answer her, which is as good as agreement, in Molly’s experience.

 

“Well,” she says, stepping inside. “I thought I was going to come into a kitchen full of burned cheese sandwiches, but it looks like things are well in hand. Thank you, Daphne.”

 

Daphne looks up and, clearly flustered, smiles.

 

“It’s no trouble, Mrs. Weasley,” she says. “I like to cook.”

 

“Do you?” Tonks asks from behind Molly, nose crinkling. “My mum tried to teach me, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.”

 

“The house elf taught me,” Daphne says. “Are you hungry? I made enough.”

 

“Thank you, dear.” Molly dawdles a moment, then takes the seat beside George, suddenly unsure. She hasn’t been made dinner since… oh, the last time Ron was home for Mother’s Day?

 

“How was he, Mum?” George asks quietly as Daphne fetches plates and utensils for Molly and Tonks. “How’s Dad?”

 

Molly goes still.

 

“He’s… where’s your sister?”

 

“Upstairs,” Fred says. “I brought her dinner, but… she hasn’t come out since breakfast.”

 

Molly nods sharply.

 

“Well,” she says. “That’s probably for the best, then.”

 

George slumps.

 

“He’s not doing well.” It’s a statement pitched like a question, like he wants to be told he’s wrong.

 

He’s not wrong.

 

“There’s no antidote for the venom they found in his blood,” she says softly. “The healers are trying their best, but…”

 

An odd noise sounds from the back of Fred’s throat, one of grief. George reaches over to grasp his hand under the table, looking no less torn.

 

That about sums it up, she thinks to herself, turning her attention to her plate— which smells delicious, actually.

 

Fred couldn’t have planned it more perfectly. If Arthur’s time comes to pass— which it looks more and more liked— Molly is perfectly within her power to break. Somebody will be there to care for her sons until she pulls herself back together, and, unlike Ginny, she doesn’t seem to mind.

  
  


*.*

  
  


**_September 3rd, 1994_ **

  
  


Hagan and his Aunt Olympia have been in each other’s company nearly a month, now, and he’s learned… well. He’s learned a lot.

 

There’s a lot of power in little things, he’s realized. His hair, his clothes, his wand, his name— all little things, according to Olympia, but integral to a man’s personality in ways he’s never realized.

 

Is it really so simple? Probably not, but Hagan must admit, aspen and White River Monster spine suits him far better than the cherry wood and unicorn hair of his father. The wand still holds a place in his heart, of course, but it rests now in a velvet-lined box under his bed, to be viewed but likely never used again.

 

“Being in America has an effect on people,” Olympia’s tells him over breakfast. “It enhances people’s strongest qualities. This can be good and bad.”

 

Hagan looks up from his newspaper.

 

“I think it’s been good for me,” he says.

 

“Oh, most definitely,” she says. “You’re a charming boy who knows when to fight and when to shore up your defenses. Pragmatic, perhaps, is a good word.”

 

Aspen is a wood best suited to enchantments— long, spoken spells that can take days to finish. Hagan himself has proven to have a knack for them, though he’s still new to the whole subject. Aunt Olympia’s gotten him a tutor, though, so he can only improve, at this point— has been, actually.

 

“I’m taking you to meet a friend today,” she says. “An old friend of mine. I think you might like him— or you won’t. He’s a bit of a weirdo.”

 

Hagan, at this point, has gotten used to Aunt Olympia’s friends. He likes some of them, and he dislikes some of them. All of them, however, are worth knowing.

 

“When’s our appointment?” he asks, because all of Olympia’s friends are the sorts of people you need to make appointments with.

 

She smiles over her cup of coffee.

 

“One,” she says. “He’ll be up by then. Probably.”

 

Ah, so one of those types, then.

 

Hagan just hopes he’s not another musician.

  
  


*.*

  
  


He’s not another musician. He’s… a madman.

 

Marlowe Graves is, in his own words, a futurist. A futurist who believes that, in order to preserve the Magical World, the Muggles must learn of its existence.

 

A tall, lanky man, Marlowe’s curly brown hair is streaked gray despite barely being more than a decade older than Hagan. He wears it long, growing it into a rather Dumbledore-like beard that seems to get far better care than the rest of him. Dressed in jeans and an overlarge blue t-shirt bearing the word Wildwood, he doesn’t look like a man to be trusted with the future of the Magical World.

 

He’s utterly mad, is what he is.

 

“You realize that the last time somebody thought Muggles ought to know about magic, it was  _ Grindelwald,” _ Hagan feels the need to point out when Olympia quite casually drops Marlowe’s work into the conversation.

 

Marlowe rolls his eyes.

 

“Yeah, but Grindelwald wasn’t interested in interrelations,” he says. “He was interested in power. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

 

“Then what are you talking about?”

 

Marlowe sits back.

 

“What are the reasons we give the children of No-Maj parents when they first enter our world?” he asks. “The reasons we give as to why we can’t let the No-Majes know about us?”

 

Hagan shrugs.

 

“They’ll think magic can fix all their problems,” he says. “They’ll hate us for being different. They’ll… I don’t know, really.”

 

“That’s pretty much the gist of it,” Marlowe says. “Now, those are both legitimate concerns. How do we combat those potential problems, or at least minimize risk? Well, it’s simple. One, we prove we simply can’t fix everything, and two, we show we’re just like them— just with a little bit extra.”

 

Hagan sits back, arching an eyebrow.

 

“And how do you propose we do that?”

 

Marlowe grins.

 

“Well,” he says. “By teaching them, of course.”

 

“You think they’ll listen?”

 

“If the information is provided the right way, yes,” Marlowe says. “I don’t know if Olympia told you, but I write for a living.”

 

“... She may have mentioned something,” Hagan admits.

 

“Well, for the most part, my works are published in the No-Maj world,” he says. “They’re marketed as young adult fantasy novels, I think, but they’re quite popular. Popular enough to make a few films out of it, in fact. Has Olympia taken you to the movies yet?”

 

“Yeah.” Hagan pauses. “It was… different.”

 

“A diplomat. I like it.” Marlowe chuckles. “Well, No-Majes go crazy for that shit. Ever heard of Star Wars? Bigger than the Beatles in some ways, and it was about people in space who fight with swords made of light. There’s even magic— they call it the Force, though.”

 

“At best, that’s a first step,” Hagan says. “Even if you manage it, there’ll still be questions. I mean, the Statute of Secrecy alone…”

 

Marlowe makes a face.

 

“Yes, well, I’m not alone in my work,” he says. “There are others working towards similar outcomes in seventeen other countries, you know. I mean, we still need political backing to come clean about our existence, but… America will lead the charge, just as it did the first time. If I can convince our government, the others will go along with minimal fuss.”

 

Hagan knows his history, knows that the International Statute of Secrecy originated in America. If America were to provide the world with a feasible plan, the others would fall in line, but…

 

“Why?” he asks. “Why even bother?”

 

Marlowe leans in close.

 

“The No-Maj world is changing,” he says. “They’re starting to catch up with us. Hell, they’ve outstripped us in some ways. How long does it take an owl to deliver a letter?”

 

Hagan blinks.

 

“Er… a day or two, more, depending on how far the owl has to fly.”

 

Marlowe smiles.

 

“No-Majes can send a message halfway across the world in minutes,” he says. “Think about that for a second. They can— thanks to a little recording device the size of your hand— make a film of anybody doing anything and keep it forever. The telephone— you know what those are, right? — can put you in contact with any person in almost any place, no hearth necessary. They’re doing things we wizards can’t do, all through the power of fucking  _ science.” _

 

“I should probably tell you now, Hagan,” Olympia cuts in. “I’ve decided to try and help Marlowe push forward this idea. With the way things are going, it’s only a matter of time before No-Majes learn of the Magical World. His efforts, while perhaps not foolproof, may help curb the backlash that will definitely happen.”

  
  


Hagan sighs, crossing his arms while he thinks.

 

“Gran won’t be pleased to hear about this,” he says.

 

Olympia smiles humorlessly.

 

“I’m willing to take that risk if it means we can help,” she says. “Besides, just think of it— if we can manage to adapt No-Maj technology to Magical purposes… well, that’s a business opportunity.”

 

“Vice-versa, too,” Marlowe adds.

 

Hagan sighs.

 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll keep this to myself, for now. Maybe try and lend a hand, if I can, on the condition that this goes no further than your books and movies. Fair?”

 

“On my magic,” Marlowe swears. “We won’t try anything without your say-so, Hagan.”

  
“Pinky promise,” Olympia adds wryly. “Now, with that all done— how about drinks?”


	25. Chapter 25

**_December 20th, 1994_ **

  
  


_ To Henry, _

 

_ I don’t know how you knew, but Mr. Weasley was attacked yesterday evening while on a mission for the Order of the Phoenix. He was bitten several times by a snake, and the assumption is that the snake belonged to the Dark Lord himself. He is in critical condition, being cared for by some of the best healers St. Mungo’s has to offer. He isn’t doing well, however, and according to several rumors circulating through headquarters (that’s where I am now, along with Fred and the rest of the Weasley children), Professor Snape may be the only one able to heal him. Unfortunately, Dumbledore refuses to pull him off the search for you in Australia. _

 

_ It is very likely Mr. Weasley will die. _

 

_ Fred asks that you do your best to keep Ron from doing anything too stupid when you tell him. Don’t let him come back, don’t let him destroy himself or anything of value. He says that he and the others are alright, and that Molly (she’s informed me I must either call her that or Mum) is holding her own for now. He says it’s likely we’ll be coming to you soon, and that if Ron likes, he can punch him in the face then. George also offers similar reparations. _

 

_ I am sorry to be answering you at such a late hour, nearly a full day since you sent your message. The house is hectic and unorganized, and with the added stress of Mr. Weasley’s injuries hanging in the air, I have been doing my best to attempt to keep order and help Mrs. Weasley as best as I can. I can’t begin to explain it, Henry, but it’s like the woman is made of steel. Fred says she was worse when Ron disappeared, but I think that might have been the abruptness of his disappearance coupled with the fact that— according to her, at least— she’s lived through this kind of worry before. Apparently she and Mr. Weasley were in the original Order, too, and she lost two brothers over the course of the war. _

 

_ In other, perhaps more superficial news, my mother sent me a letter asking for my presence as a married woman and chaperone for my little sister’s first courtship rendezvous with the one and only Draco Malfoy. It seems my mother has been going through the old contracts and found a marriage pact made with the Malfoys some two hundred years ago. Seeing as my sister is of exotic tastes and Malfoy is almost definitely snogging Luna Lovegood on a regular basis, I can’t imagine either of them are pleased. It may sound selfish, but I’m happy for the distraction. _

 

_ The world has become very dark as of late, Henry, and I’m not just talking about the magic. _

 

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Daphne Weasley _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ Harry, _

 

_ I’m passing this letter along to the cute little blonde Fred’s shackled himself to because I know she’s your contact. Don’t think she blew her cover— I was lucky enough to overhear a certain conversation. _

 

_ As I’m sure Daphne’s already told you, Arthur’s not doing well. In light of the current situation, I’m sorry to say Remus and I likely won’t make Christmas. Molly’s doing her best, and Daphne’s apparently a fantastic stand-in mother hen while she’s at the hospital, but it doesn’t seem right to leave while everything’s such a mess. We’ve decided we’ll stay until after the inevitable happens, then head on over. Depending on the state of things, I imagine we won’t be alone. _

 

_ I’m sorry, pup. I know Arthur was good to you. _

 

_ Sirius _

  
  


*.*

  
  


“What do we do?” Jane asks, eyes glassy with grief and worry. “You know Ron— he’s not going to take it well. And if we just call…”

 

“If we don’t tell him right away, he’ll only be angry we kept the truth from him,” Henry says, fiddling with his cigarette unhappily. “But if we tell him with no one around to do damage control…” he trails off.

 

“It’ll end poorly,” Jane finishes. “Shit, Henry, what do we do?”

 

He sighs.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “But we’ve got to decide before he gets home. He’s planning on being back by Christmas, after all.”

 

“Christmas,  _ shit.” _ Jane runs a hand through her braids. “This is terrible timing. This is… aren’t Remus and Sirius supposed to be coming soon, too?”

 

“They’ve decided to push it back until after Christmas,” Henry says. “They don’t think it’s right to disappear in the middle of it all.”

 

Jane nods.

 

“Alright,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “I’m going to figure out where Ron is.”

 

“Okay.” Harry stubs out his cigarette. “I’m going to call Jenny.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Ron likes her,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe she can help when he explodes.”

 

Jane’s lip curls.

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Do you have a better idea?”

 

She doesn’t, of course. She rarely has any ideas when it comes to Ron and his feelings.

 

“Fine. But don’t expect anything of her, Henry. Don’t ask anything of her.”

 

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just hoping she might take some initiative, is all.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Their bedroom door squeaks open not an hour after Daphne puts the evening’s letters in the mailbox and settles in for a long night of staring at the ceiling. Fred’s quiet beside her, not asleep, but not responsive, either, hand clasped around hers in a death grip that makes her knuckles creak.

 

“Sorry,” comes the whisper from the door. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Daphne sits up, blinking as the candle on her bedside flickers to life.

 

“George?” she asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The teen closes the door behind him and creeps closer to the bed.

 

“Georgie,” Fred murmurs, turning to face his twin. He reaches out to grasp at the sleeve of his daisy yellow pajama shirt, but George catches his hand before he can manage, squeezing tightly.

 

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” George asks Daphne. “I know it’s odd, but it’s hard to sleep nowadays.”

 

Daphne knows the twins have always shared a bedroom. She also knows this is a time of great stress.

 

“There’s enough room for all of us,” she says, scooting closer to the edge and pulling Fred along with her. “Though it’ll be a tight fit.”

 

“That’s no bother,” George says, smiling. “Thanks.”

 

He settles in beside Fred, throwing an easy arm across his brother’s shoulders and tucking his head into half of George’s pillow. Daphne finds herself with two options in the face of this: potentially fall of the edge of the bed in an effort to keep a certain distance, of say fuck it and use Fred as an anchor to stop that from happening.

 

After a moment, she decides on the latter, turning onto her side and securing herself to her husband by fisting a handful of his undershirt.

 

“Try and sleep, you two,” she says. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, I try to be well-rested whenever I visit my dying father in hospital,” Fred murmurs, and wow, that’s almost a joke. A dark one, granted, but a joke.

 

“Exactly,” she says back. “So try and sleep. George and I’ve got you.”

 

George doesn’t laugh, exactly— the situation is too serious for that— but Daphne is rewarded with a quiet snort nonetheless.

 

“Good night, Daph,” he whispers. “You’re not too bad, as far as wives.”

 

“I’ll take that compliment to my grave,” she says dryly. “Good night, boys.”

 

Fred falls asleep quickly after that, George soon after. And Daphne? Well, Daphne does her best to follow.

  
She thinks she even manages it sometime before dawn.


	26. Chapter 26

Ginny has yet to actually speak to Daphne.

 

No, it’s not because she’s a Slytherin (though she is a bit leery about that), and it’s not because she’s angry her brother married the girl without even telling anybody until after the fact (though she sort of is). It’s because, quite frankly, she thinks she’ll say something stupid if she actually opens her mouth in the direction of this girl.

 

Daphne is just… she’s really hot. Like, really, super hot. Ginny doesn’t know what to do with that, really, except try and look like she’s not staring.

 

It’s probably not the best thing to be thinking about, considering they’re on their way to visit Ginny’s father in St. Mungo’s, but she can’t help but notice the way Daphne’s black plaid tights disappear up under the line of her sensible denim skirt that tightens just enough around the curve of her ass, the way Fred’s blue Christmas sweater hangs off her slight shoulders in the most attractive way.

 

Girls are fantastic, Ginny realizes absently as she watches Fred roll up one of Daphne’s loose sleeves. She really must look into them more often.

 

She feels a little smack against her shoulder, jerking her back to reality as she turns to look at the source of the hit. George stares down at her, eyebrow arched and a little knowing curve to his mouth.

 

Ginny flushes and looks down at her shoes.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Gin,” George mutters, giving her a bracing slap on the back. “Even I had a moment of wonder when I first saw her.”

 

Strangely, that doesn’t make Ginny feel any better.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“You’re telling me that… Ron’s dad is dying?”

 

“... Yeah. He is.”

 

Jenny sits back.

 

“He’s not good with feelings,” she says. “He’s not going to take it well.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“No he is not,” he agrees. “I thought I’d warn you, though, in case you get a drunk phone call in the middle of the night or some such thing.”

 

“Why would he call me?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“He still likes you,” he says. “He asks about you whenever he calls, you know.”

 

Jenny pauses.

 

“Did you… did you tell him you explained everything?”

 

Henry smiles.

 

“I did,” he says. “I told him you’d want to talk to him when he got back, probably. Just to clear a few things up, you know.”

 

Jenny bites her lip.

 

“I still like him too, you know?”

 

“I thought you might.”

 

“He’s not going to take this well.”

 

“Not in the least.”

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

“San Francisco, right now,” Jane says, wandering into the kitchen with a stack of flyers. “They’re playing three different clubs before heading home.”

 

“Do you know where they’re staying?”

 

Jane shrugs.

 

“Rocky called earlier today,” she says. “They’re staying with… Kung Fu Mom?”

 

Jenny nods, pushing herself to her feet.

 

“I know who that is,” she says. “I can take the train down.”

 

“Er, Jenny?”

 

“Listen, Ron’s gonna need someone there to calm him down,” she says, pulling on her coat. “Rocky’s a good chick, but she knows even less about what’s going on than I do. If I’m there, maybe I can… help.”

 

“Jenny, there’s no need— I can go, if you have the address, or Janey—”

 

Jenny shakes her head.

 

“We need to talk,” she says. “Ron and I. We may as well get all the hurts out of the way at once. I’ll handle him, then bring him home. Okay?”

 

Henry’s mouth pinches uncertainly, glancing over at Jane.

 

“He gets mean,” he says. “It might not be worth it, Jenny.”

 

She shrugs.

 

“Then I’ll kick his ass,” she says. “Sometimes a fight is just what a person needs, Henry. Listen, I’ll call you guys when I get there, okay? Don’t worry.”

 

“Wait!” Jane pulls open her purse and grabs for her wallet, popping it open and pulling out a wad of cash. She shoves it into Jenny’s hands.

 

“For the bus ticket,” she says. “And something to eat. And beer, you’re going to need beer, I think.”

 

“You don’t have to—”

 

“Neither do you,” Jane says firmly. “Let’s meet in the middle, shall we?”

 

Jenny sighs but tucks the money away.

 

“We’ll be back by Christmas,” she says. “Promise.”

 

“Of course you will,” Henry says. “You’re invited, after all, and you never miss a good party.”

 

Jenny grins.

 

“Thanks, guys,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon, alright? Everything will be fine.”

 

And just like that, she’s out the door.

 

Jane sighs.

 

“This is going to end so poorly,” she says.

 

Henry nods.

 

“Yeah, I tend to agree with you on that one.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Arthur Weasley looks gaunt and sick, sitting up only thanks to the pillows piled at his back. He grins, though, when he sees his children, accepts hugs and kisses from each of them until Daphne approaches.

 

“Ah, the new Mrs. Weasley,” he says, a sincere smile gracing across his clammy face. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, dear.”

 

Daphne does her best to smile back, suddenly awkward.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Weasley,” she offers, leaning over to kiss him politely on the cheek.

 

“Oh, please— Arthur, dear.” His smile gets wider. “You can call me Arthur.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Told you he would insist, Daph.” Fred nudges her, smirking with good-humor that’s more than a little forced.

 

Daphne knows what sort of response he’s looking for, of course, and immediately turns up her nose in an exaggerated imitation of her mother.

 

“And I thought it was best to approach with courtesy and good manners,” she drawls, annunciating each syllable the way her governess used to insist upon practicing. “After all, Arthur is the  _ Lord _ of the Weasley Family.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Arthur says, looking to his wife. “It’s Molly who rules the roost most days, isn’t that right?”

 

“Naturally,” Molly replies.

 

The family falls into an easy banter after that, pointedly not talking of anything involving the Order or snakes or hospitals. After half an hour or so, Daphne excuses herself to freshen up and give them time to be alone.

 

She nearly runs into another redhead, this one bespectacled and dressed in a Ministry uniform.

 

She frowns.

 

“Percy Weasley?”

 

The man blinks down at her, blue eyes searching.

 

“... Ah,” he says, recognition coloring his tone. “You are Miss Greengrass, correct? In Ron’s year.”

 

Daphne arches an eyebrow.

 

“It’s Weasley, now,” she says. “Fred and I married not a month ago.”

 

Percy’s eyes widen.

 

“Married?” he sputters. “Fred? To a…” he pauses. “You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you?”

 

“I am.” She cocks her head to one side. “What are you doing here? Fred says you haven’t talked to the family since they learned about the Dark Lord’s rise.”

 

“You-Know-Who’s been gone fourteen years,” Percy says automatically. “I don’t know what Dumbledore’s playing at, but he’s dragging my family down with him.”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes. It’s not worth it.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks again.

 

Percy flushes, but draws himself up into the picture of condescension.

 

“I heard my father was ill and thought it proper to visit,” he says. “I had a free afternoon, after all.”

 

Daphne inclines her head.

 

“Well, if that’s all,” she says sarcastically. “Don’t let me keep you. Please, go ahead.”

 

Percy doesn’t move.

 

“... I don’t suppose you could tell me what’s happened?” he asks.

 

“Why don’t you go and find out for yourself?”

 

Another long pause.

 

“They won’t want to see me,” he says. “It’ll just cause trouble.”

 

And stress. She can’t imagine Arthur’s healers will appreciate a scene.

 

She sighs.

 

“He was working late,” she says. “And was attacked by a snake of some kind. The healers say the venom is what’s made it impossible for them to stop the bleeding— it’s been enhanced, magically, and none of the usual antidotes have done anything.”

 

Percy is very, very pale.

 

“A snake?” he whispers. “Did they catch it?”

 

Daphne shakes her head.

 

“No such luck,” she says. “The healers don’t think he’ll make it to New Year’s. Your elder brothers will be coming in tomorrow morning to say their goodbyes.”

 

An odd noise escapes Percy’s throat as he crumples into the seat nearest to him, arms wrapping around his middle.

 

“They told me he’d collapsed,” Percy whispers. “That he might have had a heart attack or some such thing. They didn’t say he was  _ attacked, _ and by an  _ animal, _ no less.”

 

Daphne sighs and settles into the chair next to him.

 

“I’m not sure if you’ve realized by now, Percy,” she says. “But politicians, bureaucrats, and public servants lie. It’s the rule, not the exception. They have to cover their own arses, lest they be held responsible for a world in ruins.”

 

“But if he was truly attacked—”

 

“Doesn’t look good for Ministry security if anyone were to find out, would it?” she says practically. “And especially considering the snake… did you know the Dark Lord attributed some forty-three kills to his snake familiar? If word were to get out, some people might find your father’s imminent death to be… quite unusual.”

 

“You-Know-Who isn’t back,” Percy says, weaker this time.

 

Daphne rolls her eyes.

 

“Yes, well, even if he isn’t,” she says. “You can’t deny _ something’s  _ going on. I mean, why else would Ron escape with Potter and Granger? Considering all that press about how he’s lying, I would have thought he’d at least try defend himself.”

 

“Ron—”

 

“Has been missing since early June,” Daphne says, nodding. “Buggered off to Australia, is the popular theory.”

 

Percy swallows.

 

“I’ve missed a lot,” he says.

 

“You have,” she agrees. “Are you going to keep missing things, though. That’s the real question?”

 

He shifts awkwardly in his seat.

 

“My position at the Ministry is… delicate,” he says. “I can’t just… my family puts it at risk.”

 

“Is your job worth more than your family?”

 

“... No.” Percy hangs his head. “But… the Ministry was always my dream. If I keep this up, I’ll be able to move to the Muggleborn Offices, you know? I’ll be able to make a difference.”

 

… Now there’s a thought.

 

“I help pass messages between certain members of your family to certain people in hiding,” she says. “If you like, I can have a letterbox sent to you. As direct a line of contact as possible.”

 

“And why would I need that?”

 

Daphne shrugs.

 

“Who knows? But better to have it than not, don’t you think?”

 

Percy sighs, but doesn’t argue. She takes that as a yes.

 

“We’ll be leaving in about an hour,” she says. “I’d consider going to visit your father then, while you still can.”

 

She pushes herself to her feet, straightening her skirt carefully before looking at Percy.

  
“Don’t be an idiot,” She says. “You’ll regret it.”


	27. Chapter 27

“Lord knows how you two managed to keep anything quiet from the professors in school. You are completely unsubtle.”

 

Remus startles, spinning so quickly on his heel that he nearly topples onto the source of the voice.

 

“Molly? I— I’ve no idea what you’re talking about?”

 

She’s a good foot shorter than him, but the unimpressed, flat glare she gives him is worthy of McGonagall. Remus feels himself shrinking with each passing moment.

 

She turns her attention to Sirius.

 

“I’ve known for a long time that you two have been planning something,” she says. “You’ve been acting squirrely and sour, and Remus hasn’t told a single story about the old days since he’s been home. You’re planning to leave, aren’t you? You know where Harry is, maybe, or you’re planning on finding him.”

 

Sirius makes a face.

 

“Molly—”

 

She holds up a hand, silencing him.

 

“Don’t bother lying. As I said, you haven’t been subtle.” She cocks her head. “When were you planning on leaving?”

 

The boys look at each other, weighing their options.

 

“After… the funeral,” Remus says, wincing.

 

She doesn’t blink.

 

“And does Harry know you’re coming? I know he’s been contacting you— otherwise Ron wouldn’t have managed.”

 

Sirius nods.

 

“He does.”

 

Molly nods to herself, arms crossed.

 

“When you go,” she says. “You’ll take my children. Ginny, Fred and George, Daphne. You’ll take them all.”

 

“... You think well of us, Molly,” Sirius says. “You really think we can get four kids across the border without alerting anyone to the fact that I, an escaped convict, have possession of four pureblood children?”

 

Molly’s eyes sharpen.

 

“Dark families have escape routes,” she says. “How else did so many of you evade capture?”

 

And— yeah, she’s exactly right.

 

Remus sighs.

 

“Of course we’ll do it,” he says. “But— are you sure?”

 

“I’ve already lost my brothers,” she says. “And I’m about to lose my husband. I refuse to lose my children to that…  _ snake-faced bastard _ as well.”

 

Sirius puts a hand on her shoulder.

 

“I’ll show you the way,” she says. “I’ll key you into the wards.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because Bill’s still tangled up in this mess,” Sirius says kindly. “Because you are.”

 

Molly shakes her head.

 

“I’m going to die here,” she says, but there’s no despair in her voice. Just quiet resignation.

 

“Not if you have a way out,” Remus says.

 

Molly will never take it, Sirius can tell by the way she simply nods and slips back into the kitchen to help Daphne with dinner.

 

Well, he supposes she has time to change her mind on the subject.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Daphne knows Draco Malfoy. She has had several polite conversations with him, in classes and in the common room, and while he’s a bit of a prat, he’s nice enough, in his own way. A bit awkward, but alright.

 

She has never seen him look more like a statue in his life.

 

It suits him— or it would suit him, if it weren’t for the fact that he and Astoria are supposed to be talking about future plans, not silently glaring daggers at each other over Daphne’s half-hearted attempts to start conversation.

 

The minutes tick on. Draco sips his tea and says nothing. Astoria nibbles at a raspberry scone.

 

It’s been forty minutes so far. The have fifty minutes before their respective mothers return from their ‘shopping trip’, i.e. when they’ve decided their children have had enough time to get to know each other.

 

Perhaps being a married woman has changed her. Perhaps it’s the stress of having a father-in-law on his deathbed. Perhaps it’s simply that Daphne has spent too much time in questionable company— bloodtraitors and werewolves and convicts oh my— that makes her say what she says.

 

“Why are we here?”

 

Both companions blink at the suddenness of her question, the flatness of her tone.

 

“Well, beloved sister mine,” Astoria starts, rage and sarcasm well-suited to her sweet voice. “You and I are women who share a mad mother, a mother who, upon hearing of her eldest daughter’s elopement with a bloodtraitor, decided she would not make the mistake again of allowing her daughters to choose their suitors, and dredged up a centuries-old contract from the bowels of our vault.”

 

“I’m here because your mad mother decided she had a right to demand my marriage to your little sister,” Draco says. “Who doesn’t want to get married, I might add.”

 

“I don’t,” Astoria agrees. “Do you? Rumor is you’ve been making moon eyes at the Lovegood girl.”

 

Draco flushes.

 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

 

“Oh, come off it, Draco. Everyone knows. Some even approve of the match.” Daphne does, at least. He’s become decidedly less prattish since his involvement with Lovegood. Almost like he’s maturing, or some such thing.

 

Draco looks like he’s going to argue, then decides against it.

 

“Look, there’s nothing to be done,” he says. “The contract is binding— I had a look at the bloody thing on the way here.”

 

“What do you mean?” Daphne asks.

 

Draco sighs.

 

“Your mother sent a copy of the contract along with her formal invitation to court her daughter,” he says. “My father’s lawyers have all taken a look at it— there’s no way out of it.”

 

“Do you have a copy of it?” Daphne asks, mind whirring as an idea begins to form.

 

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Why?”

 

“Let me have a look at it,” she says, holding out her hand. “Maybe I can find something.”

 

Immediately Draco’s nose turns up.

 

“My father has the best solicitors in Britain on retainer,” he says. “And they found  _ nothing.” _

 

“Really? Well, I suppose our father must have forgotten to mention Lord Malfoy was on his client list,” Daphne says. “Give me the contract, Draco.”

 

Draco frowns, but does as she asks anyway.

 

“You think you can find something?” Astoria asks, voice small and hopeful quite suddenly.

 

“I can bloody well try,” Daphne mutters, unrolling the contract. “Give me twenty minutes of silence. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering the last three-quarters of an hour.”

 

Astoria and Draco share a look, then settle down to wait.

 

Daphne hopes her sister’s hope is not in vain.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Got it, I think.”

 

Astoria’s out of her chair before Daphne can finish her sentence.

 

“What is it?” she demands. “In layman’s terms, please.”

 

“As if you don’t understand lawyer-speak.” Daphne says absently. Still, she acquiesces. “In essence, it says that if it is impossible to provide a viable heir, the contract is null and void.”

 

Astoria nods.

 

“Right,” she says. “Draco, hand me that butter knife.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

Astoria looks at him like he’s an idiot.

 

“To stab myself, of course,” she says. “If I can’t carry a child, the contract goes up in flames.”

 

“You could  _ die,” _ Draco says, quite sensibly, in Daphne’s opinion. “I certainly don’t know any healing magic.”

 

“Seconded,” Daphne says. “Sit back down, sister. I’m sure we can think of something better than self-mutilation.”

 

“Like what?”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“I don’t think there’s much magic in the way of permanent contraception,” Daphne says after a moment. “I can only think of fertility spells.”

 

“No— I’ve got one.” Draco pauses. “It’s quite illegal, though. Thirty years in Azkaban illegal, if they can prove it.”

 

“Is it easy to prove?”

 

“No.”

 

“What is it?”

 

Draco pauses.

 

“... The Black Widow’s Eternal Beauty,” Draco says. “It’s technically an enchantment. My mother has a grimoire… it’s a Black family spell, for women. Once they’ve provided a male heir, they usually cast it on themselves. It’s a threefold spell— a curse, really, depending on how you look at it.”

 

“How does it work?” Daphne asks.

 

Draco shifts uncomfortably.

 

“It essentially asks as an eternal cosmetic charm, enhancing and prolonging the enchanted’s beauty,” he says. “In return, however, the woman must give up her ability to bear children, and… well, her right to a man’s touch.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“What on earth does that mean?” Daphne asks, incredulous. “What, she can never fuck her husband again?”

 

Draco winces at her language. She really must stop talking to Mad-Eye.

 

“Or any other man she might fancy,” he says. “It kills them over time, you see. Or all at once, depending on how… vigorous one’s lovemaking might be. I didn’t really… read that part.”

 

He’s flushed, his face the color of a cherry.

 

“Why on earth would that be a Black family spell?” Daphne asks. “Surely wifely duties would get in the way of something so… petty.”

 

Draco shrugs.

 

“Give me a Black man who didn’t have a lover after his children were born,” he says. “Besides, such a curse can be quite useful. Your enemy thinks he’s won when he seduces your wife at a gala, and three days later he’s found, embarrassingly naked and dead of a brain hemorrhage.”

 

The Blacks weaponized... vaginas. Lovely. Just, lovely.

 

“That sounds perfect,” Astoria says. “I want exactly that. Do you remember the spell?”

 

“Are you sure?” Daphne asks, looking to her sister. “If you do this, it means you’ll never have a boyfriend. A husband, should you change your mind thirty years down the line.”

 

“I won’t want a husband,” Astoria says confidently. “Men are… weak. I dislike them, on the whole— no offense meant, Draco. You seem alright.”

 

“... Thanks.”

 

“You may think that now, Astoria, but think this through—”

 

“I prefer female company, Daphne. A husband was never in my future.”

 

Daphne blinks.

 

“Oh,” she says. “Well then.”

 

“Do you remember the spell, Draco?” Astoria asks, turning to the boy.

 

“Er…” he shakes himself. “Yes, I do. I remember when my mother cast it.”

 

The sisters pointedly do not make mention of the implications of that.

 

“Alright,” Daphne says, setting aside the contract. “What do we need to do?”

 

“You need to leave,” Draco says. “For about twenty minutes.”

 

Serious magic, then. Very well. 

 

She turns to her sister.

 

“Come for me when it’s finished,” she says.

 

Astoria nods, a determined look on her round face.

  
This… is a solution.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally got around to publishing the playlist I made for this fic! It's a mixture of songs I think they'd be listening to and songs that were directly referenced (or will be referenced). I have officially finished writing this, and there will be a part two! I don't know what happened. I started writing this so I could talk about music, and then suddenly I started thinking about this long and rambling plot that's way too complicated to just leave in one fic. This is my life.
> 
> Link to the playlist: http://8tracks.com/starhobbit/rise-above
> 
> Fun fact! The cover art is a picture of my dad ye olden dayes, cropped and exaggerated thanks to excessive use of Insta tools.
> 
> We're nearly there, guys. four more chapters to publish after this one, and then part two! I'm both excited and nauseous at the thought of all the work I've given myself.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I knew she wasn’t the right fit for you,” Narcissa remarks as they make their way to their house in the city. “But I didn’t realize how far you would go to ensure you would not marry her.”

 

Draco swallows.

 

“It was mutually agreed upon that it was the best option,” he says. “Astoria’s goals… do not require a husband.”

 

Narcissa hums in understanding.

 

“That might have been it,” she remarks. “Some people can just tell, you know.”

 

Draco nods absently.

 

“And, of course, it’s clear that someone else already holds your heart.”

 

Wait, what?

 

“What on earth do you mean by that, Mother?”

 

Narcissa smiles.

 

“Draco, you’re my son,” she says. “You think I can’t tell when my little boy is in love?”

 

He flushes.

 

“It’s nothing like that,” he mutters, looking away.

 

“Of course,” Narcissa says agreeably. “This girl— is she pureblood?”

 

“Yes.” Draco pauses. “However she is not… the most respectable.”

 

“Not that Parkinson girl.” Narcissa wrinkles her nose. “Or the Weasley girl.”

 

Draco gags.

 

“Mother!”

 

“What? A mother must ask if she is to know what’s best for her child.” She softens, good humor shining in her silvery eyes. “So, not one those girls. Is she a Slytherin?”

 

“... A Ravenclaw.”

 

“Ravenclaw? Good, she’ll be clever, then.” Narcissa pauses thoughtfully. “Likely a Light witch, then, not part of our social circle, but technically in good standing. Am I close?”

 

“I— yes.”

 

“I can’t wait to meet her,” she says. “Provided you want to begin a courtship, of course.”

 

Draco goes still.

 

“Mother?”

 

“What? It is not your father’s responsibility to accept or deny your potential partners, it’s mine.” Narcissa glances at her son. “So long as she is pureblooded and has a brain in her head, I truly have no interest in denying you someone you love.”

 

“What makes you think I love her?”

 

His mother smiles.

 

“Because, my darling,” she says. “You’ve yet to tell me her name.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“This is my little sister, Astoria,” Daphne says when Molly comes to pick her up from her… whatever the hell that was. “She’s just incurred our mother’s permanent wrath. Do you think we could let her in on the secret? I don’t want her going home to that.”

 

Molly sighs, half-amused.

 

“Let’s go find an owl,” she says. “I’m sure he can make an exception for my son’s sister-in-law.”

 

“We can borrow Father’s,” Astoria pipes up. “He should be at work now.”

 

Molly has never had the chance to speak with Merrick Greengrass. He always struck her as a self-possessed sort of man, confident in his skills and his work.

 

“Alright,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Astoria.”

 

Astoria smiles brightly.

 

“It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am,” she says. “Daphne has told me wonderful things about you.”

 

That’s nice to hear, at least.

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ To My Luna, _

 

_ I know we have talked of the differences between dating and courting, and I know that we always thought that the potential for the latter was simply not there. After some reflection on the subject and a conversation with my mother, however, I believe it might be possible. _

 

_ If it is acceptable, I would like to formally present you to my parents at the New Year. _

 

_ You may, of course, reject the offer, but I rather hope you won’t. _

 

_ Yours Only, _

_ Draco _

  
  


*.*

  
  


Luna looks up from the letter and attempts to swallow. It’s silly, really. She’s fourteen and hormonal— not in the best position to make important life decisions.

 

“Luna? Has something happened?”

 

Her father is watching her curiously from over his work. Despite having a proper office, he prefers to sit at the kitchen table while she prepares ingredients for various potions experiments, half-edited articles spread across the laminated surface.

 

“Possibly,” she says, not taking her eyes off the letter. “Father, could I ask you a question?”

 

“You always can, my lovely girl. How else will you learn of the great mysteries of the universe?”

 

“When did you know Mum was the one?”

 

Xeno pauses thoughtfully.

 

“It was our third or fourth Hogsmeade trip together,” he says. “She was talking about the anatomical possibilities of a Blibbering Humdinger, when suddenly it just… made sense. I realized that I needed her to be with me for the rest of my life.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“Thirteen.” He sighs, eyes glazing over at the memory. “It was late April, and she was weaving crowns out of dandelions for me to wear. She was wearing a wooden bead necklace so long it clicked against the gems of her belt buckle. Why do you ask?”

 

Luna looks up from her letter.

 

“I was offered a courtship,” she says. “And I don’t know if I ought to accept. I’m rather young, you know.”

 

“Well, we Lovegoods find our partners young,” he says, sighing dreamily. “If you have feelings for the boy now, they’ll likely stay forever.”

 

“Should I accept, then?” she asks. “Since I have feelings for him.”

 

“Of course. Unless there’s reason to distrust your feelings.”

 

Luna doesn’t. She never has.

 

She finds a piece of parchment and a quill.

 

“Who is this boy, anyway?” Her father asks as she settles down to write her reply.

 

“Draco Malfoy,” she says.

 

“Ah.” Xeno turns back to his work. “If he ever thinks of breaking your heart, please be sure to inform him I have an axe.”

 

“Of course, father.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Dear Draco, _

 

_ I accept. _

 

_ With Love, _

_ Luna _

  
  


*.*

  
  


Jenny comes back with The Mongrels a day early, one arm wrapped around Ron’s middle.

 

“I feel like shit,” Ron tells them flatly when Jane and Henry move to hug him.

 

“We figured,” Henry says. “Hungry? We were about to make dinner. The rest of the band’s welcome to join, of course.”

 

“That would be fantastic,” Rocky says over the top of a large, square box. “Hey, where should I put this?”

 

“What is it?” Jane asks.

 

“CD player,” Ron says. “A nice one.”

 

“We got all sorts of new music,” Joey says, carrying another box. “So we figured it’d be kind of like a Christmas present for you guys— you know, for all that beer you buy and all those times you let us crash here.”

 

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Henry says, eyes going wide. “It wasn’t a bother, or anything.”

 

“Shut up, Cardy, we wanted to,” Rocky says, smiling. “So, where do we put this thing? We wanna set it up.”

 

Jane takes over then, leading the band into the living room and clearing off a side table.

 

Henry takes the opportunity as given.

 

“How are you, Ron?”

 

Ron sighs.

 

“I want to go back and rip snake face to bits,” he says plainly. “But I’m not going to. I can’t.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry for taking that choice away.”

 

“You didn’t take anything, Henry. You asked if I wanted to come and I said yes, simple as that.” Ron shifts, the arm he has thrown over Jenny’s shoulder tightening slightly. “Besides, it’s not… it’s not like I’m alone, or anything. I’ve got you guys, after all.”

 

Jenny squeezes him.

 

“I’m here,” she tells him. “It took some time, but I’m here.”

 

Ron doesn’t smile, exactly, but his expression softens, and— wow, Henry thinks he might have an idea of what love looks like.

 

“In other news,” Ron says, changing the subject. “Everyone in the house now knows about magic.”

 

Henry blinks.

 

_ “What?” _

 

Ron puts up a placating hand.

 

“It’s not all my fault,” he says. “I mean, I accidentally prompted the conversation, but… Joey’s a Squib, apparently. Right, Joey?”

 

“I am!” Joey agrees from the other room. “My parents were assholes about it, but yeah, I’ve got a Magical background.”

 

Henry sighs, rubbing at the space between his eyebrows.

  
These people will be the death of him, he swears they will.


	29. Chapter 29

Arthur dies.

 

He just… does.

 

Astoria is uncertain what to do in the face of the Weasleys’ pain, and her sister is preoccupied, fingers tangled in her husband and his twin’s hair as they weep into the smooth silk of her robe. 

 

That’s the problem with people dying, Astoria thinks to herself as she escapes upstairs and away from the redheaded family her sister was now a part of. They always leave such a mess behind.

 

She finds herself in the library, where it’s blessedly quiet and free of tears.

 

Unfortunately, she’s not alone.

 

“Hiding, are we?” Sirius Black is huddled at a desk, Firewhisky balanced carefully on his knee. “So am I. Never knew what to do with grieving people.”

 

Black is, apparently, an innocent man. That doesn’t mean he isn’t mad, of course, but Astoria has dealt with mad people before, and is quite adept at it, if she does say so herself.

 

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” she asks, leaning against the desk.

 

“Remus? Likely trying to do something helpful before joining me up here,” Black says, shrugging. “It’s his habit, you know, to do helpful things. He doesn’t feel like himself if he isn’t handing out chocolate or making tea.”

 

Astoria snickers.

 

“It sounds like you know him very well,” she says.

 

“I ought to— we’ve been friends over twenty years, now.” Black makes a face. “God, twenty years. It makes me feel old.”

 

He certainly doesn’t look old, Astoria thinks. Worn, maybe. Wary. But his face is unlined and his hair is thick and dark. His eyes are a little troubling, however— they shine too brightly.

 

“What happens next?” she asks him. “Now that Mr. Weasley’s dead, I mean.”

 

Sirius shrugs.

 

“We bury him,” he says. “Likely in the Black cemetery, just because it’s easier. Then, your sister, her husband, and his siblings will be joining me and Remus in our great escape. You’ll be coming too, I imagine.”

 

Astoria nods.

 

“My father says it is in my best interests to follow my sister,” she says. “He says he’s already contacted the Lord, and that another house has already been purchased due to the rather sudden influx of guests he will be expecting.”

 

Sirius grimaces.

 

“It’s probably not right, putting so much on him.”

 

“This is nothing compared to the assumption that he’s meant to kill the Dark Lord,” Astoria says reasonably.

 

“Point.” He sighs. “Still. It’s a shame Arthur’s dead.”

 

Astoria hums noncommittally.

 

“You know, you should take this library with you,” she says, gesturing at the shelves. “Lord knows what might be done with all this information without someone to guard it.”

 

Black makes a face.

 

“Half of it’s just treatises about the various tortures of Muggles,” he says. “Hardly worth reading.”

 

“All the more reason to take them,” she says. “Things are going to get very bad very soon— you don’t want this sort of stuff to be accessible to any old bastard that happens to join the Order, do you?”

 

Sirius thinks about this, thinks about Remus’ increased raggedness and Dumbledore’s refusal to return Snape to the Isles.

 

The Greengrass girl may have a point there.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Daphne realizes something that evening, long after the twins have drifted to sleep in her lap.

 

If all of them leave, there will be no one left to watch Hogwarts.

 

This is… troubling. After all, Hogwarts is the heart of Magical Britain. What happens there affects the rest of their world, the politics within the castle integral to the politics of their entire population. Someone needs to keep an eye on things— otherwise they might be blindsided by a poorly thought-out expansion plan.

 

She runs through her list of possible candidates. There aren’t many, and most of them Slytherin, more of them Dark. Perhaps Zabini… no, that’s no good. Thoroughly Neutral, he keeps his nose out of politics, and in return, politics doesn’t try to kill his family.

 

Daphne sighs, running a hand through her hair. Who could she possibly—

 

And then it hits her.

 

Malfoy.

 

He owes her a debt, for finding that loophole that saved him from an unhappy marriage. He’s interested in politics, hears things no one else ever does. He’s observant enough, smart enough, and sensitive enough to notice the changes, and just enough of a pussy to do as he’s asked when she asks it of him.

 

Carefully extracting herself from between the twins, she smoothes out her gown and pads upstairs to her shared bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her and taking a seat at the desk that had appeared not two days after she first arrived.

 

Dragging the letterbox close, she snags a scrap of spare parchment and a quill, dipping the point into the inkwell before writing.

 

*.*

  
  


_ Harry, _

 

_ Arthur Weasley died in the early hours of the evening of December twenty-sixth. Please give Ron my condolences, and tell him that his siblings will be coming soon. The funeral will be on the twenty-ninth, and we plan to arrive in America shortly after. _

 

_ In light of our plans, I will be handing over this box to someone who will be remaining in Hogwarts. He will be keeping contact with me from now on through your box, so please, do not be alarmed when unfamiliar handwriting begins appearing in your box. I imagine he will whinge for a long time after I give him the responsibility. _

 

_ I will be seeing you soon, _

 

_ Daphne Weasley _

 

_ P.S. _

 

_ Please understand that I wish to keep informed of the goings-on of Hogwarts and Great Britain at large, and do not wish to— in any way, shape, or form— drag you back into the great mess that is Magical Britain. I just like to know, well, everything. _

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ Draco, _

 

_ I would like to call upon your debt to me for discovering the loophole in your marriage contract. It is not a particularly difficult way of repaying me, rest assured. I simply want you to keep me informed as to what is happening in Hogwarts, politically and socially. _

 

_ This box is connected to two people— myself, and another contact for whom it is better if you have no knowledge of their identity. Should you wish to contact me, knock once on the box. Contact him, two knocks. He is in Great Britain, so should you require assistance, he is your greatest ally. _

 

_ I dearly hope you do not join the Dark Lord, Draco. He’s bad for your health, and Lord only knows what it would do to that girl you call yours. Thank you kindly for doing this for me. _

 

_ Your Almost Sister-In-Law, _

_ Daphne Weasley _

  
  


*.*

  
  


_ To My Brother Percy, _

 

_ Arthur Weasley died on the twenty-sixth, in the early evening. I send my condolences. He will be buried on the twenty-ninth, in the Black Family Cemetery. You will likely be unable to attend, but I thought you ought to know anyway. _

 

_ This letterbox serves two functions. One is to keep contact with me. You may use it however you like, whether it be to pass along information, to curse at the state of ill-prepared public officials, or simply to vent. _

 

_ It’s secondary function is to put you in contact with an ally of mine, should you in any way need assistance. He will be remaining in Great Britain— which your siblings and I will not be— and, should the need arise, should be able to provide help. He has money, and backing, and who knows? Maybe you can become the next Minister. _

 

_ Knock once on the box and you will be able to contact me. Knock twice, and it will put you through to my other contact. _

 

_ Do your best not to be eaten alive, will you? You can’t be as bad as some make you seem. _

 

_ Your Sister, _

_ Daphne _


	30. Chapter 30

Daphne didn’t realize how small the Order was until Arthur’s funeral. No more than fifteen people turn up, after the family itself, and half of them are nearly as old as Dumbledore.

 

Who actually deemed the function important enough to show up. The nerve of that man…

 

Fred keeps Daphne very, very close, hand clasped tightly around hers— which is sort of irritating, actually. He hasn’t spent _ that  _ much time in her company, after all, and yet he can already read her tells? She’s a goddamn Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake, and a future solicitor to boot. Her father would be so disappointed.

 

Or, at least, that’s what she thinks until the bastard approaches Mrs. Weasley within earshot.

 

“I am terribly sorry, Molly.” Dumbledore actually sounds contrite, the bastard. “I wish it could have been avoided.”

 

It might have been, Daphne thinks viciously. If he’d brought Snape back to try his hand at an antidote— which is another thing. Snape’s here, at the funeral. Granted, he looks like shit, but he’s here. What’s the difference between now and two weeks ago? A corpse. That’s the difference.

 

“... Thank you, Albus.”

 

“How are the children?”

 

Molly sighs.

 

“As well as can be expected,” she says. “This is the first time, you know, that the younger ones have… lost someone.”

 

“Yes, I remember Fabian’s funeral,” Albus says. “That was what made you decide to join the Order, wasn’t it?”

 

“... Yes, I believe it was.” There’s a stiffness in Molly’s tone, discomfort that Daphne hears loud and clear— and Fred, too, if the way his grip on her hand tightens.

 

Dumbledore sighs.

 

“Such loss is an unavoidable truth during wartime,” he says. “There is nothing to be done except to fight harder to attain peace.”

 

Daphne feels her face spasm with incredulous disbelief.

 

Did Dumbledore just… did he…

 

“Did I hear that right?” she hears herself ask as Fred pulls her away towards his brother, Remus, and Sirius.

 

“You mean that bit that essentially translates into ‘your children ought to be fighting?’” he mutters furiously. “Yeah, I heard that.”

 

Daphne likes that she’s married a clever man, a man that can read leading statements for what they are and interpret them the way they’re meant.

 

Not following? Well, it’s really this simple. Dumbledore brought up Molly’s reason for joining— the reason being she watched her elder brother die— and then claimed the only way to stop more deaths was to join the fight, which is patently untrue. Wars require death, that’s why it’s called war. If nobody died, it would be called arguing.

 

“Does he always try and poach impressionable Hogwarts students for political rebellion?” Daphne asks once they’re out of earshot.

 

“Who?” Sirius asks.

 

“Dumbledore.”

 

“He prefers the term ‘idealistic’,” Remus says.

 

“During the First War, it was even easier,” Sirius says, grimacing. “Everyone felt the effects, even the purebloods. All he had to do was talk about sacrifice and duty to your  _ fellow man—” _ Sirius’ eyes go dark. “— And in the same sentence he’d tell us to leave it all to the grown-ups. Hell, at fifteen? He may as well have given us permission.”

 

“We were members before we even graduated,” Remus says somberly. “The moment each of us turned seventeen… James was the first. All of a sudden he was getting passes to leave school grounds for  _ employment opportunities _ and  _ internships… _ and so did the rest of us, one by one.”

 

“Preying on the young,” Daphne remarks, doing her best to keep her face from twisting into something ugly. “How Slytherin of him.”

 

Because that is, of course, the very strategy employed by the Dark Lord himself.

 

“Thank God we’ve packed already,” George mutters. “We need to get the fuck out of this hellhole.”

 

Sirius grunts in agreement.

 

“Tell me about it.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Henry wakes up to the tinny echo  _ Legacy of Brutality _ playing from the downstairs. Groaning, he pulls his pillow over his head, fruitlessly trying to lessen the way each beat pounds through his hangover headache.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Ron!” he hears Jane shout from her room. “Either turn it off or pick something bloody quieter.”

 

For a moment, there’s nothing but Danzig. Then, quite abruptly, the music stops as Ron switches out the CD.

 

Music starts up again a moment after that, quiet percussion followed by a deep, sorrowful voice.

 

_ “I found her on a night of fire and noise, wild bells rang in a wild sky…” _

 

Nick Cave. Better than nothing, Henry supposes. It’s certainly gentler on his poor head.

 

Today is the day they’re expecting company. Arthur’s funeral will be held— or was held, time zones are confusing— in the early morning, followed by lunch, followed by Sirius spiriting everyone away to the Unplottable, Impenetrable Black Manor in the country, which apparently has some kind of secret way of getting people in and out of the country.

 

Ron, of course, is nervous. The early wake-up call coupled with what is clearly cleaning music makes it obvious, even to Henry, who’s always been on the more oblivious side of things, when it comes down to it.

 

The door creaks open quietly.

 

“Sorry,” Jenny murmurs, creeping into the room. “I know you need your sleep. I brought Tylenol and water, just in case.”

 

Jenny is a gift. Henry hopes she never realizes exactly what level of idiot Ron is.

 

“Thanks,” he says, rolling onto his back. “How is he?”

 

“Terrified,” she says. “He keeps wandering back to the new house, just to make sure everything’s alright. He keeps rearranging things.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Just let him do it,” he says. “He’ll tire out eventually.”

 

“I hope so.” Jenny smiles. “When’s everyone supposed to get here?”

 

“One or so,” Jane answers from the doorway. It seems she’s pilfered one of Ron’s shirts, but Henry doubts he’ll notice an extra Mongrels shirt missing. “We should, by all accounts, still be sleeping. Especially after last night.”

 

“Not you,” Jenny says. “That Luis guy called— he said something about you picking up some photos?”

 

Jane’s eyes widen.

 

“Oh, shit!” she disappears back into the hall, scrambling for her bedroom to dress.

 

Jenny rolls her eyes and turns back to Henry.

 

“I’m going to go see if I can’t calm him down,” she says. “Try and get some more sleep, alright?”

 

Henry nods into his pillow, already rolling back onto his side.

 

He’s too nauseous to be excited for today.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The Black Manor is as ugly as it is old, stained black from the Industrial Revolution and bare of any plant life for much the same reason. The inside is likely just as bad, but Sirius doesn’t care, because they’re not going inside.

 

“The crypts are less than friendly, if I’m honest,” Sirius says as he leads them down into the earth. “But, if you’re a Black, they’re the best way to travel.”

 

“And… how is that, exactly?” Fred inquires, ducking away from a low-hanging root.

 

“Well, the family story is that Sirius the First made a deal with Death,” he says. “The Black line would supply him with dogs for the hunt, and in return, he and his line would be able to travel as Death did. For every child born to the Black line, there’s a dog locked in the crypts— so watch your step.”

 

As if to illustrate his point, Daphne feels a crunch under her feet. She makes the mistake of looking down at what broke— a skull, by the looks of it. An ancient, canine skull.

 

“... Fuck,” she whispers.

 

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees, oblivious. “Regardless of how it happened, the magic’s old, and effective. And, more importantly, I can bring people along— I just have to do it one at a time.”

 

“And where are we going to be ending up, exactly?” Astoria asks. She can be remarkably sensible, Daphne thinks. Which is good, because her mind has become rather hazy. Stress does that.

 

“Paradise Valley, Nevada,” Sirius replies. “I’ve never been, myself, but the American branch of the Blacks keep a house there. Technically, it’s a ghost town— that’s why they like it so much.”

 

“Sirius’ cousin will be waiting for us with a car,” Remus adds, glancing over his shoulder. “She’ll be taking us the rest of the way— or to Berkeley, at least.”

 

“Yeah, color me paranoid, but I’m not too keen on the idea of my family knowing exactly where we are,” Sirius says. “Even if the Americans on the whole are a mellower lot.”

 

Daphne wonders if she’s in too deep or if she can still back out of this completely harebrained plan. It’s Sirius Black, for Merlin’s sake. An escaped convict who’s more than a little mad after an extended stay with the Dementors.

 

“Right, we’re nearly there,” Sirius announces. “Who’s going first?”

  
Well, that answers that question.


	31. Chapter 31

Sirius Black’s cousin, Daphne discovers when they pop out of a mausoleum supposedly somewhere in America, is named Lyra. She looks like her cousin, inasmuch as she has the same dark hair and sly silver eyes, however— Daphne just doesn’t think that Sirius could pull off black lipstick in quite the same way.

 

She smiles when Daphne struggles up into the sunshine, holding out one long, pale hand for her to take. She’s cold to the touch, almost corpse-like.

 

“Hello,” she says. “Welcome to America.”

 

“Thank you.” Daphne closes her eyes, sunspots dancing across her vision. “There’s only a few of us left, now.”

 

“That’s just fine,” Lyra says, smiling. “Come on— everyone else is already in the car.”

 

The car is an old Lincoln Continental, sleek and shining in the harsh desert sun. The windows are tinted too dark to look in, but Daphne can tell the car is magically enhanced just by the chrome. The metal always reacts oddly to enchantment.

 

The alterations, in the end, are nothing too major. Cooling Charms, Expansion Charms, a Softening Charm on the black leather seats— nothing unusual, or out of the ordinary. George is already waiting for her when she steps into the car, peering through the gap between the headrests at the radio.

 

“Considering what we know about Sirius’ family, I don’t know what I was expecting,” George says as she settles into the seat beside him. “Lyra seems almost friendly.”

 

“From what I understand, the Americans aren’t considered  _ real  _ Blacks,” Remus says from the seat opposite George. “A bit too willing to dip into the Muggle world, if you know what I mean.”

 

“They also don’t seem to care the British Lord is an escaped convict,” Daphne remarks.

 

Remus’ lip quirks.

 

“Sirius says they seemed quite excited at the prospect of meeting the only man to ever escape Azkaban,” he says. “His fugitive status is a mark of status, as far as they’re concerned. The danger is… exciting, I suppose.”

 

“Hey all!” Fred greets cheerfully, sliding in beside Daphne. “That Lyra seems like a lovely woman, doesn’t she? Excellent sense of fashion.”

 

Daphne completely agrees, though she doesn’t think she’d be able to carry a parasol off so casually, no matter how well it matched her outfit.

 

On the subject of fashion— she really does have to thank Sirius for insisting she wear something lighter than what she’d worn for the funeral. She would be melting in her woolen robes.

 

Ginny slips in next, followed by Astoria. Sirius sits in the front seat, chatting animatedly with Lyra.

 

“Dad’s quite excited to hear you’ve come to the states,” she says. “Uncle Orion used to visit a lot, you know, before he got sick— he used to tell stories about all the trouble you and your friends got into at school.”

 

“You’re lying,” Sirius says, but he’s grinning. “My father? Was he disgusted, at least?”

 

“Oh, most definitely,” Lyra says, nodding. “But Dad thought it was the funniest thing. Said you had a rebel heart.”

 

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Sirius says. “And how has Uncle Procyon been? Last time I saw him must have been some fifteen years ago.”

 

“When you came looking for a house,” Lyra says, nodding. “I remember. Dad’s been alright— celebrating the birth of sister number seven, you know.”

 

“Seven? Damn.”

 

“I know, right? I had money on getting another little brother.” Lyra sighs dramatically. “Anyway, you’re heading for Berkeley, right? Bay Street.”

 

Sirius freezes.

 

“How’d you know?”

 

Lyra shrugs.

 

“Aludra likes to keep an eye on things,” she says. “And there’s something happening on Bay Street. Something important.”

 

“What’s happening?”

 

“Something revolutionary,” Lyra says. “Henry Potter and his wards have been stirring the cauldron, and the potion’s starting to boil.”

 

“Henry?” Remus asks, frowning slightly. “Wards?”

 

Daphne clears her throat.

 

“I probably should mention,” she starts carefully. “To avoid detection, Harry had his name legally changed, as did Miss Granger. They’re Henry and Jane Potter, now, respectively. And Ron Potter, of course.”

 

“Because they’re wards of the Potter family,” Lyra adds.

 

“Exactly.” Daphne shifts. “Ministry paperwork is very exact. If no one had their proper, legal names, there was no way for them to be tracked, you understand.”

 

“... My godson’s a clever little bastard,” Sirius says after a moment. “Brilliant, and so simple…”

 

“How do you know that?” Remus asks.

 

Daphne shrugs.

 

“I was the one who filed the paperwork.”

 

Sirius grins.

 

“Lyra, we better get going,” he says. “I need to go hug that idiot boy— he managed to outsmart Albus Dumbledore, all thanks to a bit of bureaucracy.”

 

“With pleasure,” Lyra says, engine roaring to life under her feet. “We’ll be in Berkeley within the hour. Do you think they’ll mind having a guest for dinner? I’ve been dying to meet this boy, but Dad said it would be a bad idea, being a stranger, and all that.”

 

They keep talking, and Daphne tries to let herself sink into the comfort of easy conversation, try being the key word. She can’t quite shake the sudden bout of nerves that have given birth to worms in her stomach as the weight of her actions hit her.

 

She’s left Britain. Left behind everything she’s ever known at the drop of a hat, without finishing school (not even her OWLs) or even a note for her mother. All she has for family (until her father joins them, anyway) is her sister and her husband. Besides them, she is completely, utterly alone in a strange new world.

 

Fred squeezes her hand gently.

 

“You alright, Daph?” he asks softly. “You look a bit stiff.”

 

Well, she thinks, looking up into soft brown eyes. She could have done worse. Fred’s a good man, a kind one, and his brother’s not so bad, either.

 

“Just nervous,” she says, smiling. “It’ll pass.”

 

Fred frowns, leaning closer.

 

“Everything’ll be alright,” he promises. “Once me and George have the store up and running, we can open up an office for you— well, after you finish school, obviously— but it’s all going to be fine, really—”

 

She doesn’t know why she does it, but it seems to work when she leans up to kiss him quiet.

 

“I know,” she says, sitting back. “Like I said, it’ll pass.”

 

Fred blinks dumbly at her, an odd, dazed look on his face.

 

She hasn’t kissed him before, not since their wedding. She finds that the look on his face— part surprise, part wonder— suits him rather well. She likes it.

 

Daphne will have to kiss him again soon, if it gets a reaction like that.

 

“Okay,” he says, sitting back. This is a first, for Daphne. Never before has she seen him at a loss for words.

 

Oh, yes, this is an experiment that bears repeating.

 

Smiling to herself, she settles herself more comfortably against the line of his arm, resting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

 

An hour until Berkeley, until a new life full of surprises that she can’t even begin to guess at, even with all of her correspondence with Henry to work with.

 

She’s going to take advantage of the peace while she still can. Daphne will need her strength, in the coming months.

 

Fred’s hand slips free of hers, coming instead to rest along the flat of her neck. Sighing quietly, she lets her eyes slip shut against the light streaming in through the window.

  
Everything will be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, one more chapter after this and we're done Rise Above! There's a sequel after this one, I think. I mean, I have the first three chapters of it written, so... yeah.


	32. Chapter 32

Henry stress cooks. Ron stress bakes. Jane stress smokes.

 

Between the three of them, Jenny is looking at a four course meal and a lot of open windows.

 

The table has been magically lengthened to fit everyone— everyone being a bit more than expected.

 

The final count is as follows:

 

  * Henry, Jane, and Ron
  * Jenny, because Ron wants her to meet his family
  * The Mongrels— Rocky, Dirk, and Joey— because they want to meet Ron’s family
  * Henry’s godfather Sirius and his boyfriend(?) Remus
  * Two of Ron’s older brothers, Fred and George, who are twins
  * Fred’s wife, who is apparently sixteen (Jenny’s not sure what to do with that information, but it seems important, somehow) and also kind of Henry’s lawyer(?)
  * Fred’s sister-in-law, who was apparently kicked out because she refused to get married (quite sensibly, in all honesty)
  * Ron’s little sister



 

That’s fourteen people to fit around a table that normally fits four comfortably, six uncomfortably. Jenny supposes that magic makes basic problems like that go away, but it’s one thing to understand that as an abstract concept and another thing completely to realize that not only has the table is suddenly six feet longer but the kitchen has changed dimensions to accommodate the damn thing.

 

It’s really fucking scary, to be honest, which is why Jenny is sitting between Janey and the Mongrels in the next room, television on mute, music blaring, and ashtray overflowing.

 

Henry says he bought the house across the street to handle the sudden influx of people. He says they’re staying, just like he and Ron and Janey are, escaping a war that’s brewing just on the other side of the thin veil that separate normal people from magical people.

 

How crazy is that?

 

The sound of the doorbell cuts through the music like a knife, the angry buzz jarring and terrifying in equal measure because that means they’re here. Seven people who are magical and have wands and robes and probably sound vaguely like Star Wars villains because they’ve all been taught how to talk like rich English people.

 

Jenny kind of wishes she’d thought to have a drink as she watches Henry tug off his apron and go to open the door.

 

The man who steps in first scoops Henry up into a bear hug.

 

“Harry!” he greets brightly. “Or— sorry, it’s Henry now, isn’t it? Look at you,  _ Merlin, _ look at you.”

 

Henry is smiling, arms wrapped around the older man just as tightly.

 

“Sirius,” he says, and there’s just as much feeling in that one word as a person could manage.

 

The older man— Sirius, the godfather— sets him back down.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” he starts, gesturing to a goth girl not much older than Jenny herself. “I brought my cousin Lyra along for dinner. She’s been wanting to meet you.”

 

“I have,” the girl agrees, stepping up to shake Henry’s hand. “It’s very nice to finally put a face to the name, Lord Potter.”

 

Henry shrugs uncomfortably.

 

“Just Henry’s fine,” he says. “Are you hungry? We’ve got plenty to eat, if you haven’t already caught on.”

 

“I could eat,” Lyra agrees. “Oh, there’s No-Majes. I wasn’t expecting that.”

 

“Er, yeah, about that…” Henry gestures to the living room. “Ron?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

 

Ron, bless his heart, doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all when he goes to help Jenny out of her seat, steering her into the impossible kitchen to stand in front of the strangers.

 

“Fred, George, Ginny,” he starts. “This is my girlfriend, Jenny. Jenny, these are my brothers and my sister.”

 

Jenny does her best to hide her nervousness.

 

“Hello,” she offers, inwardly groaning. That’s all she can manage? Pathetic.

 

There’s a pause, surprise registering on his siblings’ faces before fading into good humor.

 

“Nice to meet you, Jen,” one of the brother says. “I’m Fred. This is my wife, Daphne.”

 

The older blonde girl of the group gives her a polite smile.

 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jenny,” she says. “You must be very special.”

 

“‘Course she is,” Ron says a little sharply. “She’s not screaming, is she?”

 

Good old Ron. Always knows exactly what not to say.

 

“Well, I already did it the once,” Jenny says, shrugging. “Twice would be a little unoriginal, don’t you think?”

 

The other brother grins.

 

“She’s got a sense of humor,” he says. “I like her.”

 

“Who are the other Muggles?” Ginny asks, nodding to the Mongrels. They haven’t even bothered to stand up from the couch.

 

“Them? That’s my band.” Ron stands a little straighter, chin tilted in defiance. “Rocky, Dirk, and Joey. We just got back from tour, right before Christmas.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Rocky says, waving a hand.

 

“We know about magic, before you ask,” Joey adds.

 

The man Jenny assumes is Remus arches an eyebrow.

 

“Statute of Secrecy doesn’t seem to be as important in America,” he remarks.

 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Lyra says cheerfully. “You three could get into a lot of trouble. I love it.”

 

Henry snorts.

 

“Right,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Put downs your bags and have a seat. Ron and I haven’t been slaving away over a stove all day just to have our life choices questioned in the doorway.”

 

“Yeah,” Janey pipes up, stubbing her cigarettes. “That can wait until we’ve all had a few drinks, at least.”

 

“You’ve always been a genius Gra— Jane,” George says, grinning. “I, for one, am starving.”

 

“Seconded,” the other blonde— Astoria, Jenny thinks, the sensible one— says. “I smell pot roast, is that pot roast?”

 

And just like that, life falls into a new reality, one where Jenny ends up sat between Ron and Remus— who’s a werewolf, if Ron’s whispers are to be believed— listening to Fred and George talk about a toad-woman named Umbridge and her ugly pink sweaters.

 

“Pass the potatoes, if you would?” Remus asks, golden eyes warm and careful.

 

Jenny passes the potatoes.

 

“Thank you, Jenny.”

 

“No problem,” she says automatically. “Hey, are you actually a werewolf?”

 

She doesn’t know why she asks. It just comes out, word vomit of the highest order.

 

Remus freezes, and wow, Jenny has never felt like such an asshole in her life. He looks so uncomfortable, she sort of wants to sink into the floor for putting the guy in this position.

 

“I… yes, I am.”

 

That’s… that’s really cool, actually. Jenny can cross it off her bucket list— met a werewolf.

 

“Wait, what? Dude, that’s so fucking cool!”

 

Dirk grins from across the table, a smear of gravy on his chin.

 

Remus looks surprised.

 

“Truly?” he asks, puzzled. “Muggles must not know much about werewolves.”

 

“Well, I mean, probably not,” Jenny says, shrugging. “But like, you’re cursed to turn into a wolf every full moon, right?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“That’s pretty awesome,” Jenny tells him honestly. “A little fucked up, but pretty awesome.”

 

The confusion is clear on his face, but he doesn’t look so uncomfortable, now. If anything, he looks a bit lighter.

 

“Well,” he says, shifting in his seat. “I suppose the sentiment is appreciated.”

 

There’s a burst of laughter from the other end of the table and they all turn to look. Astoria is gesturing wildly, miming what looks like either an argument or a fistfight with a particularly rabid chipmunk. Little purple sparks fly from her fingers as if to emphasize their movements, hitting the wood of the table and fizzling out.

 

Yeah, Jenny thinks, nudging Ron and pointing to the salt. This is her life now, apparently. It’s full of weird, magical people running away from their problems and making utensils dance on their own. It could be worse, of course— they could be assholes. Or worse, skinheads.

 

Still, she can’t help but think this might be an omen of some kind. People running from a war is never a sign of a good future full of Care Bears and winning lotto tickets, after all.

 

Well, regardless. She’s in it now, even if she knows Ron would let her leave in a moment. No use worrying about the future. Who knows? Maybe she’s wrong. She’s probably wrong.

 

There’s music still playing from the living room, something that pops and crackles with age. A record, most definitely, one of the old ones that were here long before Ron and Henry and Jane moved in.

 

“Wait, I know this one,” Sirius says from the other end of the table. “This one’s one of mine!”

 

“And a damn good record it is, too!” Ron says, tipping his beer in salute.

 

Sirius lets out a bark of a laugh, then starts to hum along.

 

_ “I belong to the blank generation and, I can take it or leave it each time…” _

 

Good food, good music, good people, and bad beer. That’s all Jenny’s ever asked for.

  
Right now’s good enough for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! The final chapter is posted for Rise Above, and a sequel will be following shortly. I will be slowing down the updates for the sequel, just because I kinda shot my load here, but I will try to keep things semi-regular. I'm moving in a week or so back to Philly, so it's gonna be a little crazy for a while!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed reading this. It was a weird ride, honestly. This was supposed to be a little 'what if?' scenario that just became an excessive prologue to what I'm imagining to be a lot of intrigue and political upheaval. I'm happy to have been able to share this with you, and thank you all for your support!


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